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Poetry must be human. If it is not human, it is not poetry. - Vicente Aleixandre

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           RAVENNA

All things ephemeral, fast-fading
In time's dark vaults, hid by you, lie.
A babe, you sleep, Ravenna, cradled
By slumberous eternity.

Through Rome's old gates the slaves no longer,
Bright slabs of marble bearing, pass.
The gilt looks charred, seems but to smoulder,
Not flame in the basilicas.

The moisture's indolent caresses
Have smoothed the stone of tombs where green
With age the coffins of the blessed,
Of holy monks stand and of queens.

The silent crypts, by all forsaken,
Cold shades invite that o'er them roam
So that the gaze of Galla, wakened,
Might not burn through the mass of stone.

The bloody trace of war's dark horrors
Has been forgot and wiped away
So that she might not sing the sorrows
And passions of a bygone day.

The sea's withdrawn, and o'er the ramparts
The roses climb and form a screen
So that Theodoric might never
Awake or of life's tempests dream.

A realm of death. Men, vineyards, houses
Are all as sepulchres. Alone
The brass of Latin, ageless, rousing,
Blares like a trumpet on the stones.

But in the gaze intent and peaceful
Of the Ravenna girls the sea
Is glimpsed at times, reminder wistful
Of something that no more will be.

And deep at night, the ages counting,
Those meant to come by fate's decree,
The eagle-profiled shade of Dante
Of Vita Nuova  sings to me.

1909