FLORENCE

How this old terrace of mellow, creamy stone
Grows warm in this noontide sun of Italy ...
I sit alone
And dream a piteous dream of ecstasy
And suddenly wake!
In that raw town by a Canadian lake
Does she pause now ... to watch the falling snow?
Before me stretch the olive trees that glow
With their soft silvery radiance; far below
The towers of Florence rise, like tall carved flowers.
Ah I know well she does not count her hours
That swiftly pass from dawn to candle-light ...
She has the sun-filled day ...
I but the night!

VENICE

Dense violet sky of sparkling stars above,
And all around
The soft, mysterious stirring of dark velvet water
That makes no sound.
And here in the old Square
Life ... surging, swaying, sparkling everywhere,
As if it held at arms’ length waiting there
The sky and water and their mysteries.
But near me at a little table alone,
A red-haired, black-eyed woman broods and waits,
Gazing across the empty cups and plates.
Her bright hair makes a glory in the light,
But her dark eyes, unseeing, bring the night,
Too near!

ROME

So ... only the little things are left to me ...
Cold comforts they!... Beauty my only home.
Drifting of almond bloom ... gray ruins of Rome ...
The Italian sun that makes these old stones warm ...
Lilt of old poems ... sight of a girlish form ...
Gay little laughter ... moon through the cypress trees ...
I occupy myself quite well with these.