 | Words by the Wayside |  |
49
To Venice
Sea-streeted City, once by Wordsworth hymnedIn all too brief, but ever-during, song,
What after-minstrel but must do thee wrong,
And leave thee with thy brightness dashed and dimmed?
Yet while thy visible beauties, ocean-rimmed
And sky-encompassed, to our eyes belong,
And thy dead past reflected clear and strong
Lives, on the waters of the spirit limned,
So potent is the charm which o'er thee broods,
That tower and court and carven balcony,
Lagoon and gliding gondola—nay even
The pink-foot pigeons in their multitudes—
Wake memories that might haunt a soul in heaven,
And fire the very dumb to sing or die.
| Words by the Wayside | |