A high wooded hill near Florence, an April
afternoon. Below, the valley farms
were still and small, stall and field
hushed in brightness. Around us the woods
woke with sound, and shadows lived
in the air and on the dry leaves. You
were drawing what we saw. Its forms
and lights reached slowly to your page.
We talked, and laughed at what we said.
Fine hours. The sort men dream
of having, and of having had. Today
while I slept I saw it all
again, and words for you came to me
as though we sat there talking still
in the quick of April. A wakening
strangeness—here in another valley
you never lived to come to—half
a dialogue, keeping on.