Today a cold wind travels the earth,
not arid, parching as later it will be,
dragging leaves from branches with a sound

 

Today I shall not take the Riana road
cut lately into a tender flank of hill
blood-red with beeches, trickling with tiny streams;

 

Read in Emile Mâle the fact that the sculptors of the North
in their series of months make September the thresher
in Italy they make July.