cling round the rampart's stone,
lest Theodoric dream life's storms
as he sleeps soundly in his tomb.
And the vine-set wastes, the houses,
and the people - all are tombs.
Only noble Latin, cut in bronze,
sounds like music from the stones.
Only in the intense quiet gaze
of Ravenna's girls, regret
for the sea that will not return
still shyly flickers on, as yet.
Only at night, bent over the valleys,
taking stock of the centuries to be,
Dante's spirit, with aquiline profile,
sings of the New Life to me.
To The Muse
In your secret music,
are messages of dark disaster.
A curse on all that's holy,
And so seductive a power
I'm ready to repeat
that you drew angels from heaven,
enticing them to your feet.
And when you scorn faith
that grey-blue halo,
I once saw before,
begins to glow above you.
Are you good or evil? - You are - inhuman.
They tell strange tales abo