Excerpt from The Story of Florence Nightingale: The Heroine of the Crimea
The city where she was born is one of the fairest upon earth. One who visited it said: If you wish to see it to perfection, fix upon such a day as Florence owes the sun, and, climbing the hill Of Bellosguardo, or past the stages Of the Via Crucis to the church Of San Miniato, look forth upon the scene before you. You trace the course Of the Arno from the distant mountains on the right, through the heart of the city, winding along the fruitful valley toward Pisa. The city is beneath you, like a pearl Set in emerald. All colours are in the landscape, and all sounds are in the air. The hills look almost heathery. The sombre Olive and funereal cypress blend with the graceful acacia and the clasping Vine. The hum Of insect and the carol Of bird chime with the blithe voices Of men; while dome, tower, mountains, the yellow river, the quaint bridges, Spires, palaces, gardens, and the cloudless heavens overhanging, make up a panorama on which to gaze in trance of rapture, until the spirit wearies-from the exceeding beauty of the Vision.
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