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Dave Bonta
sun and din
of the afternoon
I come home singing
and it is our Italy
where always we pray
to be
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