for the glorious being who had died in her youth and beauty. But what
could he fashion or build? He thought with envy of Arnolfo and of
Giotto: the one with his bricks could have built a tomb which would
prove to be one of the wonders of the world, and the other with his
brush could have fixed her features for ever, for the wonder of future
generations. And yet was not his instrument the most potent of all, his
vehicle the most enduring? Stones decayed, and colours faded, but verse
remained, outliving bronze and marble. Yes, his monument should be more
lasting than all the masterpieces of Giotto, than all the proud designs
of Arnolfo; but how should it be?

He had reached a narrow lane at the foot of a steep hill covered with
corn and dotted with olives. He lay down under a hedge in the shade.
The sun was shining on two large bramble bushes which grew on the hedge
opposite him. Above him, on his right, was a tall cypress tree standing
by itself, and the corn plots stretched up behind him till they reached
the rocky summits tufted with firs. Between the two bramble bushes
a spider had spun a large web, and he was sitting in the midst of it
awaiting his prey. But the bramble and the web were still wet with the
morning dew, whose little drops glistened in the sunshine like diamonds.
Every tiny thread and filament of the web was dewy and lit by the
newly-awakened sun. He lay on his back in the shade and pondered on the
shape and nature of his gift of song, and on the deathless flowers that
he must grow and gather and lay upon her tomb.

The spider's web caught his eye, and from where he lay the sight was
marvellous. The spider seemed like a small globe of fire in the midst of
a number of concentric silvery lines studded with dewy gems; it was like
a miniature sun in the midst of a system of gleaming stars. The delicate
web with its shining films and dewdrops seemed to him as he lay there