Down this narrow street (more of an alleyway than a thoroughfare), they said the poet would often walk. They said that it was at some point halfway through the path — on the ninth of May in 1834 — that the Poet experienced inspiration, and felt the muses sing to him for the first time. In the interval of time between the end of one street and the beginning of another, he crafted the verses which would make him famous and which would imprison him forever in the sepulchral embrace of textbooks.
What was it that ignited the spark that day? Was it that particular hue of the buildings? Was it the way the road gradually curved upward and to the right? Or was it the fact that the alleyway used to house small, family-operated butcher shops (for it was before the days of rigid zoning laws) which would now and then spill unto the street the sacrificial offal?