Then that fair, forsaken glimpse and I, Amidst the soft sun-woven streets- “Goodbye”- Though the Lombard spring was not yet done, And the word worked wild in the seed-season mild, So strange on her Latin tongue… As the noon-lit and cloistered court, Reposing in the gentle breeze, Unsought between graffiti-grey facades, Where the ancient grace of a frescoed trace Takes in the scent of lemon trees, Grows wise in the wisteria-hidden place, And basks among clandestine eaves; As the soft and sudden peace In the fragrant corner fold Between the streetside sounds, Where the porcelain clinks and the old man drinks, And gathers up his coffee-cup thoughts, And stirs them through his soul and thinks In his sweet smoke-pipe surrounds; As the faces they wear when they gather in the square, As the ease of the thanks they receive, As their youth, as their charms, As the loves on their arms, As the silence that breaks when they leave; The courtyard and the vacant chair, The trodden-down tresses of the empty square, And the lovely lemon-fresh morning Lilting Latin on her tongue: Then that fair-glimpsed memory, The word unheeded and the dream begun Amidst the soft sun-woven streets- Ah, The Lombard spring is not yet done.
