We’ll be in Palermo before the twilight clears, Before the promise of the night escapes and disappears Down the Apollonian paths lit gold beneath our feet, That chase the ever fading sun through glimpses in the wheat. If pressed to lips the sweetness of an olive-stricken love Clears clouds within our Latin souls to blue the skies above, If I to thee pledge temples that drop from out the sky, And you pledge revelations, to pass from thee to I, Then in the sunset silence, we’ll hear the rustling hush, That brings the wine to passion, and brings the fruit to blush, That brings loved to beloved beneath the olive tree, Beneath the hot and hungry night that comes from Sicily. Before the twilight turning bids Apollo to his lyre, Releasing all his captive dreams to mingle in desire, We’ll be in Palermo, to catch the last sunbeams, And fix their promise to the night, like Phoibos in his dreams.
