A soldier crippled in our Pisan wars     

       Who begs upon San Marco's steps by day.     

       Hi, here's a scudot Catch it in your cap.     

       D'you hear me fellow?     

       Strange, he does not stay,     

       But hastens on as if he . . . there, he's gone.     

       Perchance he's mad or deaf, or blind and mad.     

       And yet methought that, when he turned to go,     

       His face looked upward, so it caught the light;     

       And it was like to one . . .     

  

 [Comes hack from the window and sits down] 

  

       Ah well,     

       I'll think no more of spirits and of ghosts;     

       Let the dead past go bury up its dead.     

       I'll think of Mona Lisa's face alone . . .     

  

       Of Mona Lisa's face.     

  

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