Here's a girl, hardly a grown-up,
Hardly bending her eyes down,
Hardly turning to red,
With the unconceivable black eye
Is looking on me straightly.
If I had a will,
Then I surely would have been sitting all my life in Settignano
Near the weathered stone of Septimius Sever;
Looking there on the stones, flashed by sun,
On the beautiful neck and the back
Of the unbeautiful woman under the shivering poplar-trees.
15 May Settignano