Loss
Often enough I think I have got
The turn of her head and neck, but not
The face—never the face that speaks.
My mind goes seeking, and seeks and seeks.
Sometimes, indeed, I feel her at hand,
Sometimes feel sure she will understand,
If only I do not look or think . . .
Out of an empty cup I drink!
****
Down Lung' Arno again to-day
I went alone the self-same way
I walked with her and heard her tell
What she would do when she was well.
All else the same. Upon the hill
White Samminiato watching still
Among its pointing cypresses.
And that long, farthest Apennine
Still lifts a dusky, reddish line
Against the blue. How warm it is!
And every tower and every bridge
Stands crisp and sharp in the brilliant air;
Only along the mountain ridge
And on the hill-spurs everywhere
The olives are a smoke of blue.
Until upon the topmost height
They pale into a livid white
Against the intense, clear, salient hue
Of that mid-heaven's azure light.
This, for one day, my darling knew.
We meant to rest here, passing through.
How pleased she was with everything!
But most that winter was away
So soon, and birds began to sing;
For all the streets were full of flowers.
The sky so blue above the towers—
Just such a day as it is to-day,
When in the sun it feels like May.
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