You sailed four times before you could

give up your native town for good

and the stone house that had withstood

floods and the ruinous quake.

Grandfather, whom I never knew,

dead when your son was only two,

how is it that I think of you

as he lies slowly dying?

Forgive me if I seem to rail

because the nurse’s efforts fail,

and still my father cannot sail

after your distant wake.

Why do I count those chestnut trees

and see the shelves of cellared cheese,

while younger children climb your knees,

and the infant boy is trying?

You summoned the small ones: “caro! . . . cara!”

in Vermont and Cervinara

and they obeyed. To me, you are a

hero, tall and burly,

in a portrait of uncertain date.

I see my father hesitate.

Oh, do not let him stay too late

in the world you left too early.