Sang Pindar, poet-swan: “Beneath the sun
There’s nothing more dear than water.” From hills
Incline of aqueducts compels the run
Of water anciently from blessed rills.

It trickles into sarcophagous wells,
Now strikes the sky, a column, and, once shattered,
Far off now laps cool air; untamed, it swells
From marble threshold in the streams it scattered.

The babbling water makes the narrow lane
Come magically alive, and sea-gods leap
Beside it and lead on the dancers’ train.
A chisel fused them. Old palazzi sleep,

Deserted, yet hear how waters rejoice,
How gently through the haze resounds their voice.