Warm enough, perhaps, to grill an
Englishman, O muddy Milan!
Now I find you soaking wet,
Underneath an English sky;
Pavements, mediæval yet,
Whence mud splashes ever fly;
And, to make one damp and ill, an
Endless downpour, muddy Milan!
Though you boast such works of art,
Where is that unclouded sky?