 | Forest Notes |  |
69
AT VENICE
So now she stands by Glory's great sea-grave
And has the first fair vision of that shrine
Where it lies sainted with its smile divine,
Rubied in sunset, em'ralded in wave;
Where the stones whisper of the masques they gave
Of argosy and pageant, line on line;
Till we are drunk with splendour as with wine
In that broad street which molten beryls pave.
And has the first fair vision of that shrine
Where it lies sainted with its smile divine,
Rubied in sunset, em'ralded in wave;
Where the stones whisper of the masques they gave
Of argosy and pageant, line on line;
Till we are drunk with splendour as with wine
In that broad street which molten beryls pave.
I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,
Or only of the dim Byzantine gold
And time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?
And if a corner of her heart doth hold
Something besides a dream of the crowned isles
That ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?
Or only of the dim Byzantine gold
And time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?
And if a corner of her heart doth hold
Something besides a dream of the crowned isles
That ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?
E.
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