Adlai Stevenson Died in Palermo

Adlai Stevenson died in Palermo. 
In the airport. His face was pasted 
On the newsstand, bobbing in and out among 
Jabbering Sicilians, their sweaty hands 
Sticky with orange soda pop, 
Their bodies fat and rank.
But you picked a decent place to die, Adlai: 
Sicily is good to death; it 
Tricks it up with lavish trappings—
Even the horses wear wreaths and special livery. 

Your name is now identified for me 
With all that island’s ancient monuments: 
Segesta, majestic against the sunset; 
Erice, preserving its mediaeval chastity 
On its high proud rock; and the temples of Silenus,
Oddly sailing like flagships through fields of grain
As we looked up from splashing in the blue bay. 

I am metamorphosed myself 
For a woman I scarcely know. 
She takes me, as I’ve found, 
From my letter to a friend: 
I am become for her a runner on white sands 
Chasing crabs into secret lairs, racing free 
Beneath new constellations in a southern sky, 
Hungry in the breezy air 
For a scent of cloves from Zanzibar. 
It is a way I would remember myself.