Excerpt from On the Death of Madonna Laura

To My Father's Memory

To those whose hearts upon some coffin lie

To knock for entrance - whose best visions took

Fire from a grave - I dedicate the cry

And all the tidal sameness of this book.

They will not blame me if my poet repeat

A thousand times his phrases like a child:

For like a child, to all that he can meet,

He talks of love that's vigilant and wild.

To Petrarch, life was but a mirror fair

Wherein his lady's beauties tranced lay:

Her eyes, her lips, her voice, her smile, her hair

Made the strange spectrum of his lonely day.

For me, I con these bright monotonous things

That, when my angel meets me on the strand

And stuns me in the rushing of his wings,

I may say something he can understand.

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