Wanderers

Snow is falling prettily

on the baskets of flowers: it whitens

the daffodils and the violets,

the slim freesias, from

sunny countries.

To look at them you think

of the many wrong destinies

grieving

through the paths of the earth

and a fury of rootlessness tightens

through the golden ways of the soul

where snow doesn’t reach.

Milan, 2 March 1932