Bessie Gray (1854–1925)

’GAINST the dust-gold of morn’s candescent sky

Strike dome and campanile, sharp and clear,

Jangling sweet bells on the still city’s ear.

Strange scents of musk and myrtle hover nigh;

The frail pomegranate-blossoms, hanging high

Above the dark canal, drop straight and sheer,

Drift on, a crimson fleet, then disappear.

High-heaped with sun-kissed fruits, the boats go by

With cadenced oar to the gay market-place,

Where purple, bloomy grapes, for very stress

Of swollen sweetness, burst and spill their wine;

Where bronzèd melons lie, in shade and shine,

And the Sea City’s definite impress

Glows in swart splendor from each dusky face.