To My Cicerone

My Cicerone, on this monument
A name protrudes obscured by time and gloam, 2
Engraved by a man to mark his stay in Rome.
I must needs know that traveler’s intent.
Perhaps he will be welcomed at the inns
By joyful cries, perhaps the speechless sand
Will hide his acts of kindness and the sins
Which we shall never know nor understand.
I have to know what then he felt and thought
When in this stony book of Italy,
Instead of a phrase his name he merely wrought,
Of all his life the only trace to be.