From my villa on the hill I long looked down upon the muttering town; Then one day drew (life sigh-sick, dull hope shed) my toga o'er my head. (T simplest gesture being the greatest thing) Like a raised wing...

This covers me,
that erst had the blue sky.

This soil treads me,
that once I trod.
My hand put these inscriptions 
here, half knowing why;

Last,
and hence seeing all,
of the passing hand...