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!