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Stunned in their voiceless way to be aliveAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,The mortal architect had brought to life,At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Bronze the sky, with noNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.High on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreBefore those virile women!Glimmering of light:Of meaning like these—the world created byYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeSet on that tomb in the eternal night;