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Word: fountained (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
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...rotunda will be converted into an English Garden flanked by high walls, green benches, white statuary, and cypress trees. In the center will stand a fountain...

Author: NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED | Title: CORONATION SETTINGS WILL DECORATE UNION IN FRESHMAN JUBILEE | 5/18/1937 | See Source »

...forgotten that Keats died in Rome. It was only by accident last night while lingering in the Piazza Di Spagna--the center of life of the old Papal Rome--that my eye wandered from the beautiful fountain of the "Baracaccia" to an inscription in Italian and English on the side of an old red building saying that here in 1822 the young English poet died...

Author: By Christopher Janus, | Title: The Oxford Letter | 5/13/1937 | See Source »

...spent an hour or so in Keats' room (which is next to Severn's). On the one side it overlooks the majestic staircase of the "Trinita Dei Monti" and on the other the Piazza and the Fountain. Immediately below is a charming outdoor flower nook owned by a jolly old Italian and you can call from Keat's window and he will bring you up a rose; and if he likes you he may give you one for "the Signore" free. Without superstition I think nowhere in Rome have I seen flowers so fresh and so seemingly content...

Author: By Christopher Janus, | Title: The Oxford Letter | 5/13/1937 | See Source »

...quiet of the evening--even as I saw them yesterday--when the old Italian draws water from the fountain for the young ones who were not sold, casting out the old to urchins playing in the street, and then puts to the shutters of his trade, might not then the more bold of the lot, feeling the strength of a kindred spirit, steal by the fragrance of their souls into that same room where lives the memory of him who loved them so well...

Author: By Christopher Janus, | Title: The Oxford Letter | 5/13/1937 | See Source »

...morning when the old Italian returns, raps on the shutters and lets in the sun; and bunch by bunch takes the truant roses to the fountain to wash their sleepy faces, splashing water also on his own, does he ever guess their night's sweet escapade? I suspect he does, but being a bit of a poet himself says nothing: only this little song: "Roses, Roses, Roses: Fresh, young roses." At least so it seems...

Author: By Christopher Janus, | Title: The Oxford Letter | 5/13/1937 | See Source »

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