| |
He sings. I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart | |
| In this my singing. | |
| For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; | |
| The very night is clinging | |
| Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space | 5 |
| Above me, whence thy face | |
| May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. | |
| |
She speaks. Say after me, and try to say | |
| My very words, as if each word | |
| Came from you of your own accord, | 10 |
| In your own voice, in your own way: | |
| “This woman’s heart and soul and brain | |
| Are mine as much as this gold chain | |
| She bids me wear; which” (say again) | |
| “I choose to make by cherishing | 15 |
| A precious thing, or choose to fling | |
| Over the boat-side, ring by ring.” | |
| And yet once more say … no word more! | |
| Since words are only words. Give o’er! | |
| |
| Unless you call me, all the same, | 20 |
| Familiarly by my pet name, | |
| Which if the Three should hear you call, | |
| And me reply to, would proclaim | |
| At once our secret to them all. | |
| Ask of me, too, command me, blame— | 25 |
| Do, break down the partition-wall | |
| ’Twixt us, the daylight world beholds | |
| Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! | |
| What ’s left but—all of me to take? | |
| I am the Three’s: prevent them, slake | 30 |
| Your thirst! ’T is said the Arab sage, | |
| In practising with gems, can loose | |
| Their subtle spirit in his cruce | |
| And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, | |
| Leave them my ashes when thy use | 35 |
| Sucks out my soul, thy heritage! | |
| |
He sings. Past we glide, and past, and past! | |
| What ’s that poor Agnesè doing | |
| Where they make the shutters fast? | |
| Gray Zanobi ’s just a-wooing | 40 |
| To his couch the purchased bride: | |
| Past we glide! | |
| |
| Past we glide, and past, and past! | |
| Why ’s the Pucci Palace flaring | |
| Like a beacon to the blast? | 45 |
| Guests by hundreds, not one caring | |
| If the dear host’s neck were wried: | |
| Past we glide! | |
| |
She sings. The moth’s kiss, first! | |
| Kiss me as if you made believe | 50 |
| You were not sure, this eve, | |
| How my face, your flower, had pursed | |
| Its petals up; so, here and there | |
| You brush it, till I grow aware | |
| Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. | 55 |
| |
| The bee’s kiss, now! | |
| Kiss me as if you entered gay | |
| My heart at some noonday,— | |
| A bud that dares not disallow | |
| The claim, so, all is rendered up, | 60 |
| And passively its shattered cup | |
| Over your head to sleep I bow. | |
| |
He sings. What are we two? | |
| I am a Jew, | |
| And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, | 65 |
| To a feast of our tribe; | |
| Where they need thee to bribe | |
| The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe | |
| Thy … Scatter the vision for ever! And now, | |
| As of old, I am I, thou art thou! | 70 |
| Say again, what we are? | |
| The sprite of a star, | |
| I lure thee above where the destinies bar | |
| My plumes their full play | |
| Till a ruddier ray | 75 |
| Than my pale one announce there is withering away | |
| Some … Scatter the vision for ever! | |
| And now, | |
| As of old, I am I, thou art thou! | |
| |
He muses. Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? | 80 |
| The land’s lap or the water’s breast? | |
| To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, | |
| Or swim in lucid shallows, just | |
| Eluding water-lily leaves, | |
| An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust | 85 |
| To lock you, whom release he must; | |
| Which life were best on Summer eves? | |
| |
He speaks, musing. Lie back: could thought of mine improve you? | |
| From this shoulder let there spring | |
| A wing; from this, another wing; | 90 |
| Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! | |
| Snow-white must they spring, to blend | |
| With your flesh, but I intend | |
| They shall deepen to the end, | |
| Broader, into burning gold, | 95 |
| Till both wings crescent-wise enfold | |
| Your perfect self, from ’neath your feet | |
| To o’er your head, where, lo, they meet | |
| As if a million sword-blades hurled | |
| Defiance from you to the world! | 100 |
| 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! | |
| |
Still he muses. What if the Three should catch at last | 105 |
| Thy serenader? While there ’s cast, | |
| Paul’s cloak about my head, and fast | |
| Gian pinions me, Himself has past | |
| His stylet through my back; I reel; | |
| And … is it thou I feel? | 110 |
| |
| They trail me, these three godless knaves, | |
| Past every church that saints and saves, | |
| Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves | |
| By Lido’s wet accursèd graves, | |
| They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, | 115 |
| And … on thy breast I sink! | |
| |
She replies, musing. 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! | 120 |
| |
| 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, | |
| ’T is proper to be choice in what I wear. | 125 |
| |
He speaks. Row home? must we row home? too surely | |
| Know I where its front ’s demurely | |
| Over the Guidecca piled; | |
| Window just with window mating, | |
| Door on door exactly waiting, | 130 |
| All ’s the set face of a child: | |
| But behind it, where ’s a trace | |
| Of the staidness and reserve, | |
| And formal lines without a curve, | |
| In the same child’s playing-face? | 135 |
| 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, | 140 |
| Then a sweet cry, and last came you— | |
| To catch your lory that must needs | |
| Escape just then, of all times then, | |
| To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds | |
| And make me happiest of men. | 145 |
| 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, | 150 |
| 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 let lie curling o’er their bosoms. | 155 |
| Dear lory, may his beak retain | |
| Ever its delicate rose stain, | |
| As if the wounded lotus-blossoms | |
| Had marked their thief to know again. | |
| Stay longer yet, for others’ sake | 160 |
| 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 | 165 |
| Who brought against their will together | |
| These objects, and, while day lasts, weave | |
| Around them such a magic tether | |
| That dumb they look: your harp, believe, | |
| With all the sensitive tight strings | 170 |
| Which dare not speak, now to itself | |
| Breathes slumberously, as if some elf | |
| Went in and out the chords,—his wings | |
| Make murmur, wheresoe’er they graze, | |
| As an angel may, between the maze | 175 |
| Of midnight palace-pillars, on | |
| And on, to sow God’s plagues, have gone | |
| Through guilty glorious Babylon. | |
| And while such murmurs flow, the nymph | |
| Bends o’er the harp-top from her shell | 180 |
| As the dry limpet for the lymph | |
| Come with a tune he knows so well, | |
| And how your statues’ hearts must swell! | |
| And how your pictures must descend | |
| To see each other, friend with friend! | 185 |
| 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, | 190 |
| Bold Castelfranco’s Magdalen | |
| You ’d find retreated from the ken | |
| Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser— | |
| As if the Tizian thinks of her, | |
| And is not, rather, gravely bent | 195 |
| On seeing 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 | 200 |
| Its night so well, you cannot break | |
| The sport up: so, indeed must make | |
| More stay with me, for others’ sake. | |
| |
She speaks. To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, | |
| Is used to tie the jasmine back | 205 |
| That overfloods my room with sweets, | |
| Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets | |
| My Zanze! If the ribbon ’s black, | |
| The Three are watching: keep away! | |
| |
| Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe | 210 |
| 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. | 215 |
| |
| 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. | 220 |
| Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand | |
| More than I touch yours when I step to land. | |
Just say, “All thanks, Siora!”—
Heart to heart | |
| And lips to lips! yet once more, ere we part, | |
| Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art! | 225 |
| |
He is surprised, and stabbed. It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and best | |
| Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon 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 | 230 |
| To death, because they never lived: but I | |
| Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die! | |
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