<h2><SPAN name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></SPAN> La Figlia Che Piange </h2>
<p>Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—<br/>
Lean on a garden urn—<br/>
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—<br/>
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—<br/>
Fling them to the ground and turn<br/>
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:<br/>
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.<br/>
<br/>
So I would have had him leave,<br/>
So I would have had her stand and grieve,<br/>
So he would have left<br/>
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised<br/>
As the mind deserts the body it has used.<br/>
I should find<br/>
Some way incomparably light and deft,<br/>
Some way we both should understand,<br/>
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.<br/>
<br/>
She turned away, but with the autumn weather<br/>
Compelled my imagination many days,<br/>
Many days and many hours:<br/>
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.<br/>
And I wonder how they should have been together!<br/>
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.<br/>
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze<br/>
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.<br/></p>
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