Paul, I should like, one June, to fly with you once more
From Zurich to Lugano in that little jet
Just when the morning sun has gained and overshot
The valley’s eastern brim, so that our silhouette,
Chasing the torrent, bounding over fields of light,
Is fugitive as thought along its vivid floor.
A giant’s thumb and finger gave the impetus
We’ll feel inside this lemon pip’s straight streak due south.
Great naked brutes of mountain heads will force our path
Below, between them, frowning on our trespass.

And Elise will serve us champagne and cheese straws —
Elevenses, or pre-apéritifs —
And we will smile in grateful disbelief
That such a moment, here again, is ours.