The pointed savor of a pineapple, 

A world of corners, each hiding surprise, 

And melancholy, as in a giraffe's eyes: 

The kingdom of childhood is dappled glory. Old, 

We are like prisoners at their exercise. 

Here nothing shines. Night passes. The bare street 
Under that stone sky is Chirico's. 
Shadows are cut by a grey light that glows 
Like the cheek of a ghost. Mystery, once alive 
With promises, now clings to what death knows. 

Morning returns. Though snow is on the river, 
The famous punctual daffodils return. 
Young lovers lie together. They will learn 
The truth that holds us still. Loss is our jokesmith, 
And tenderness the fire with which we burn.