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So Stevenson be glad—
Whatever your life was, your dreams were,
I do not know and you cannot care,
Fallen like a stone on that hot street.

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, 

His eyes milky, intensely blue, 
Fasten totally upon the life that was living 
From 1884 to nineteen hundred and twelve; 
Not seeing the life that has been his dying since, 
Though he has braked the crawl toward surcease 
More courageously successful than we (even I, the Valley’s Poet)
In our existing. 

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