Winter Noon

At the moment when I was still happy
(God forgive me my bombast ! )
who punctured m ybrief joy ?
You'll say a Milanese blond
passing by, who laughed at me.
No, it was a balloon,
a sky-blue balloon drifting
through the blue of the winter noon.
The Italian heaven was never so blue :
there were puff white clouds,
the sun burned the house-windows,
a string of smoke slipped
from one or two chimneys, -
when the balloon took flght
over all things, all those divine things,
and escaped the inconsiderate hand
of the boy-(Surely he was weeping
in the middle of that crush
for his sorrow, his terrible sorrow)
between the Stock Exchange
and the Cofle House,
where I was killing time,
as I gaped at his balloon,
dipping and lifting . . .