Rescue me thou, the only real! And scare away this mad Ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
He and the Couple catch at last Thy serenader; while there's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His stylet thro' my back; I reel; And... is it Thee I feel?
They trail me, do these godless knaves, Past every church that sains and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido's wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And . . . on Thy breast I sink!
Dip your arm o'er the boat-side elbow-deep As I do thus: were Death so unlike Sleep Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel Or poison doubtless, but from water-feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away: since you have praised my hair 'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
Must we, must we Home? Too surely Know I where its front's demurely Over the Giudecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All's the set face of a child: But behind it, where's a trace Of the staidness and reserve, Formal lines without a curve, In the same child's playing-face? No two windows look one way O'er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead! First out a cloud of curtain blew, Then, a sweet cry, and last came you— To catch your loory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds, And make me happiest of men.
I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o'er the balcony,
To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach,
That quick the round smooth cord of gold, This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old When Rome there was, for coolness' sake
To place within their bosoms.
Dear loory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Marked their thief to know again!
Stay longer yet, for others' sake
Than mine! what should your chamber do? -With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you That brought reluctantly together These objects and, while day lasts, weave Round them such a magic tether
That dumb they look: your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings That dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumbrously as if some elf Went in and out tall chords his wings Get murmurs from whene'er they graze, As may an angel thro' the maze Of pillars on God's quest have gone At guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell,
As the dry limpet for the lymph
Come with a tune he knows so well.
And how the statues' hearts must swell! And how the pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You'd find Schidone's eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke : And deeper into her rock den Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen
You'd find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser- As if the Tizian thinks of her!
As if he is not rather bent
On trying for himself what toys Are these his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, for others' sake
Than mine, your stay must longer make!
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Be sure that Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze: if the ribbon's black
I use, they're watching; keep away.
Your gondola-let Zorzi wreathe
A mesh of water-weeds about
Its prow, as if he unaware
Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair;
That I may throw a paper out
As you and he go underneath.
There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we! Only one minute more to-night with me? Resume your past self of a month ago! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow: Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, All thanks, Siora . .
And lips to lips! Once, ere we part, Make me thine as mine thou art !
It was to be so, Sweet, and best
Comes 'neath thine eyes, and on thy breast.
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair
My blood will hurt. The Three I do not scorn
To death, because they never lived: but I
Have lived indeed, and so-(yet one more kiss)—can die.
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