No sign of Spring!
Florentine sentinels
from icy campanili
watch for a sign—
Lorenzo dreams to awaken bluebirds
Ariosto sucks his thumb.
Michelangelo sits forward on his bed
. . . awakened by no new change.
Dante pulls back his velvet hood,
his eyes are deep and sad.
His great dane weeps.
No sign of Spring!
Leonardo paces his unbearable room
. . . holds an arrogant eye on die-hard snow.
Raffaelo steps into a warm bath
. . . his long silken hair is dry
because of lack of sun.
Aretino remembers Spring in Milan; his mother,
who now, on sweet Milanese hills, sleeps.
No sign of Spring! No sign!
Ah, Botticelli opens the door of his studio.
1958.
