You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Ezra Pound imagery is always so mesmerizing. I want to research Francesca to see what it was about her that a poem would speak so eloquently about the need to be alone with her…again. Sounds like the makings of a lovely Italian mystery set in the thirties or forties.