In the ragged heath

Clouds in the west are piling high
like sea-foam on a vast ocean,
like cresting waves in slow-motion
washing across the autumn sky.

The oaks battle the undertow,
the birches whisper in the wind;
the alders burgeon as they bend,
waving druid-wands to and fro.

And like gypsy-orphans, you and I

lose ourselves in the ragged heath,
out on the moors which lie beneath
the silent breakers passing by.

Italia

Italia sits in the evening sky
with star-bouquets and indigo
as zephyrs from the ocean blow
a silver gondola drifting by.

The day had ended with a fire
upon the twining waters bright,
enkindled by the autumn light
and dying with serene desire.

The dark clouds, tired of making rain,
went to slumber in the east;
the night became a gentle beast
to carry us behind its mane.

Ascend we now to Roma fair,
a wilderness of colonnades;
cannoli and frozen lemonades,
cigars and Vespas everywhere.

But ancient steps are draped with dust
to museums never open late;
an old face glowers at the gate
of centennial iron caked with rust.

The trees are shedding almond tears,
dogs are running down the street;
the cobbled pavement hurts our feet,
the alleys stir up midnight fears.

The gondola arrives with silver glow;
we pay the man a handsome fare;
we slip then through the open air
and bid Italia addio!