The grass flowed for
miles, a multitudinous green speculating upon other colors, here and
there clearly donning a gold, an amethyst, a blue. The pine-tree
looked afar to other pine-trees. Each seemed solitary. Yet all had the
oneness of the great stage, and if it could comprehend the stage might
swim with its little solitariness into a wider uniqueness. In the
distance lay Rome. He could see St. Peter's dome. But around streamed
the ocean of grass and the ocean of air. Lifted from the one, bathed
in the other, strewed afar, appeared the wreckage of an older Rome.
There was no moving in Rome or its Campagna without moving among
time-cleansed bones and vestiges. Rome and its Campagna were like
Sargasso Seas and held the hulks of what had been great galleons. The
air swam above endless grass, endless minute flowers. In long
perspective traveled the arches of an Aqueduct.
He lay in the shadow of a broken tomb. It was midspring. The bland
stillness of this world was grateful to him, after long inner storm.
He lay motionless, not far from the skirts of Contemplation.
The long line of the Aqueduct, arch after arch, succession fixed,
sequence which the gaze made unitary, toled on his thought. He was
regarding span after span of imagery held together, a very wide and
deep landscape of numerous sequences, more planes than one.
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