San Vito Romano and Rome

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O Roma, Roma, at thy feet,
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long,
That leads unto thy sacred street.

And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole

And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.

By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard, and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna's way
The seven hills bear up the dome!

- Oscar Wilde, Rome Unvisited

~ Piazza Sant'Anselmo ~

~ The Three Churches of the Aventine ~

Tonnarelli alla Gricia con Carciofi

Ravioli in Anchovy Butter Sauce

Remnants of a pizza, destroyed

The Aventine Keyhole

~ San Vito Romano ~

~ Non-Catholic Cemetery of Rome ~

	Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown:
	— John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”

Angel of Grief

	Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange.
	— Shakespeare, “The Tempest”

San Vito Romano and Rome

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet,
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long,
That leads unto thy sacred street.

And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole

And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.

By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard, and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna's way
The seven hills bear up the dome!

- Oscar Wilde, Rome Unvisited

~ Piazza Sant'Anselmo ~

~ The Three Churches of the Aventine ~

Tonnarelli alla Gricia con Carciofi

Ravioli in Anchovy Butter Sauce

Remnants of a pizza, destroyed

The Aventine Keyhole

~ San Vito Romano ~

~ Non-Catholic Cemetery of Rome ~

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:

— John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”

Angel of Grief

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

— Shakespeare, “The Tempest”

Saint
Benedict

Anselm
of Canterbury

Saint
Vitus

Saint
Sabina

San Vito Romano and Rome

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet, I lay this barren gift of song! For, ah! the way is steep and long, That leads unto thy sacred street. And yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole

And wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream, To see the purple mist and gleam Of morning on the Apennines. By many a vineyard-hidden home, Orchard, and olive-garden grey, Till from the drear Campagna's way The seven hills bear up the dome!

- Oscar Wilde, Rome Unvisited

~ Piazza Sant'Anselmo ~

~ The Three Churches of the Aventine ~

Tonnarelli alla Gricia con Carciofi

Ravioli in Anchovy Butter Sauce

Remnants of a pizza, destroyed

The Aventine Keyhole

~ San Vito Romano ~

~ Non-Catholic Cemetery of Rome ~

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown:

— John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”

Angel of Grief

Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange.

— Shakespeare, “The Tempest”

SaintBenedict

Anselmof Canterbury

SaintVitus

SaintSabina

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet,
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long,
That leads unto thy sacred street.

And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole

And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.

By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard, and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna's way
The seven hills bear up the dome!

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

Saint
Benedict

Anselm
of Canterbury

Saint
Vitus

Saint
Sabina