Evening, and the setting sun’s golden rays
Bathe the streets of Florence in a warm glow.
Its fire sets her auburn hair ablaze
And gives the poet’s heart a searing blow.
Behold the haloed bird, omen of death,
That heralds the hour of her demise.
The poppy planted brings her final breath,
And grief at losing her now stalks his eyes.
Trance-like, her upturned face is yet at peace;
In repose, her beauty shines from within.
The sundial shows the hour of her release.
Fair Beatrice! Alas, what might have been.
And in her image he reveals the face
Of one he loved and mourns and can’t replace...