Passing the central Palace (called ‘of Reason’)
In Padua, daily I’d contemplate,
High on one wall among begrimed inscriptions,
Leaning as from a window, a gentleman
In Quattrocento costume – with a turban.
He smiles across distance, his hand raised in greeting.
Smiling as if at me, to bid me welcome
To a city, enlightened and humane,
Whose style I can neither touch nor imitate.
And though I would not say
This is a final wisdom,
As of Christ or the Buddha, on the Palace of Reason,
Yet it seems he has a graciousness
Beyond our time to emulate,
Though one may celebrate.
That smile across the ages is intent
On courtesy. And none the less,
I suffer it as though it were contempt.