Stretched forth my arms to snatch her to my
breast,
And found her gone—the courtyard filled with sun.
Six months have passed since then—six tortured
months!
There hangs her portrait, it has felt no brush
Since on that April mom she went away;
And now the empty courtyard's filled with night,
And back to Florence Mona Lisa's come.
To-morrow I will go to her and say,