Siena

Whilst thou art far away, I am at peace,
As some poor wretch, delivered from the rack,
Enjoys the slumber of a doubtful ease
Knowing he must be haled to torture back.

In this embattled city of old days,
The flower of beauty born of blood and fire,
My footsteps wander through the narrow ways,
And seek in vain the soul of my desire;

I feast upon my dreams' immortal food,
But when there comes again the thought of thee,
It is as if slow heavy drops of blood
Dripped from a wound within unceasingly.

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