“E tuttoque to fosse a la compagnia di molti, quanto alla vista.”

Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my face

Close-pressing, soft as is the South’s first breath

That all the subtle earth-things summoneth

To spring in wood-land and in meadow space.

Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place

Me seemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth

Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth

The air awhile and giveth all things grace.

Or on still evenings when the rain falls close

There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast

My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed

That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.