Things to Be Loved

The Carceri, soft rain in February,
These two stone oaks,
this sky of Giotto’s blue,
Beds of hepatica and fritillary
In this square garden plot
that Francis knew:

These things are to be loved.
I know. I love them In their still world, uplifted from the plain.
I choose for you the diffident
dearest of them,
White fritillaries in the Umbrian rain.

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