In An Album

If instead of windows so amply Frozen to precious stones we had A few statues against azure skies, Or a columned peristyle for reveries... If only Sorrento sunlight Would slither through laurel leaves... Ah well ! . . . here all is veiled in mists . . . If only instead of this lovely cypress And this glare that hurts the eyes And the Colosseum (red foxes' lair!) One could espy the plaits of a weeping willow, And instead of a land of rubble and ashes And shattered Etruscan pots, see irrigated Fields of water-melon And just touch a little Polish soil... Ah well ! . . . Oh imagination ! . . . Lady Penelope, I know you as when your nimble foot Skips o'er your suitors' ashen hearts... I know you and your mottled fan, Your gestures - the chanting of sweet descants, Your power and truth - and I rest content.