Joaquin Miller's Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

She was damn'd with the dower of beauty, she
Had gold in shower by shoulder and brow.
Her feet!—why, her two blessed feet, were so small,
They could nest in this hand. How queenly, how tall,
How gracious, how grand! She was all to me,—
My present, my past, my eternity!

She but lives in my dreams. I behold her now
By shoreless white waters that flow'd like a sea
At her feet where I sat; her lips pushed out
In brave, warm welcome of dimple and pout!
'Twas æons agone. By that river that ran
All fathomless, echoless, limitless, on,

And shoreless, and peopled with never a man,
We met, soul to soul. ... No land; yet I think
There were willows and lilies that lean'd to drink.
The stars they were seal'd and the moons were gone.
The wide shining circles that girdled that world,
They were distant and dim. And an incense curl'd
In vapory folds from that river that ran
All shoreless, with never the presence of man.

How sensuous the night; how soft was the sound
Of her voice on the night! How warm was her breath
In that world that had never yet tasted of death
Or forbidden sweet fruit! ... In that far profound.

We were camped on the edges of godland. We
Were the people of Saturn. The watery fields,
The wide-wing'd, dolorous birds of the sea,
They acknowledged but us. Our brave battle shields
Were my naked white palms; our food it was love.
Our roof was the fresco of gold belts above.

How turn'd she to me where that wide river ran,
With its lilies and willows and watery weeds,
And heeded as only a true love heeds! ...
How tender she was, and how timid she was!
But a black, hoofed beast, with the head of a man,
Stole down where she sat at my side, and began
To puff his tan cheeks, then to play, then to pause,
With his double-reed pipe; then to play and to play
As never played man since the world began,
And never shall play till the judgment day.

How he puff'd! how he play'd! Then down the dim shore,
This half-devil man, all hairy and black,

Did dance with his hoofs in the sand, laughing back
As his song died away. ... She turned never more
Unto me after that. She arose and she pass'd
Right on from my sight. Then I followed as fast
As true love can follow. But ever before
Like a spirit she fled. How vain and how far
Did I follow my beauty, red belt or white star!
Through foamy white sea, unto fruit-laden shore.

How long did I follow! My pent soul of fire
It did feed on itself. I fasted, I cried;
Was tempted by many. Yet still I denied
The touch of all things, and kept my desire ...
I stood by the lion of St. Mark in that hour
Of Venice when gold of the sunset is roll'd
From cloud to cathedral, from turret to tower,
In matchless, magnificent garments of gold;
Then I knew she was near; yet I had not known
Her form or her face since the stars were sown.

We two had been parted—God pity us!—when
This world was unnamed and all heaven was dim;
We two had been parted far back on the rim
And the outermost border of heaven's red bars;
We two had been parted ere the meeting of men,
Or God had set compass on spaces as yet;
We two had been parted ere God had once set
His finger to spinning the purple with stars,—
And now at the last in the sea and fret
Of the sun of Venice, we two had met.

Where the lion of Venice, with brows a-frown,
With tossed mane tumbled, and teeth in air,
Looks out in his watch o'er the watery town,
With paw half lifted, with claw half bare,
By the blue Adriatic, at her bath in the sea,—
I saw her. I knew her, but she knew not me.
I had found her at last! Why I, I had sail'd
The antipodes through, had sought, and had hail'd
All flags; I had climbed where the storm clouds curl'd,
And call'd o'er the awful arch'd dome of the world.

I saw her one moment, then fell back abash'd,
And fill'd to the throat. ... Then I turn'd me once more,
Thanking God in my soul, while the level sun flashed
Happy halos about her. ... Her breast!—why, her breast
Was white as twin pillows that lure you to rest.
Her sloping limbs moved like to melodies told,
As she rose from the sea, and threw back the gold
Of her glorious hair, and set face to the shore. ...
I knew her! I knew her, though we had not met
Since the red stars sang to the sun's first set!

How long I had sought her! I had hunger'd, nor ate
Of any sweet fruits. I had followed not one
Of all the fair glories grown under the sun.

I had sought only her, believing that she
Had come upon earth, and stood waiting for me
Somewhere by my way. But the pathways of Fate
They had led otherwhere; the round world round,
The far North seas and the near profound
Had fail'd me for aye. Now I stood by that sea
Where she bathed in her beauty, ... God, I and she!

I spake not, but caught in my breath; I did raise
My face to fair heaven to give God praise
That at last, ere the ending of Time, we had met,
Had touched upon earth at the same sweet place. ...
Yea, we never had met since creation at all;
Never, since ages ere Adam's fall,
Had we two met in that hunger and fret
Where two should be one; but had wander'd through space;
Through space and through spheres, as some bird that hard fate
Gives a thousand glad Springs but never one mate.

Was it well with my love? Was she true? Was she brave
With virtue's own valor? Was she waiting for me?
Oh, how fared my love? Had she home? had she bread?
Had she known but the touch of the warm-temper'd wave?

Was she born to this world with a crown on her head,
Or born, like myself, but a dreamer instead? ...
So long it had been! So long! Why, the sea—
That wrinkled and surly, old, time-temper'd slave—
Had been born, had his revels, grown wrinkled and hoar
Since I last saw my love on that uttermost shore.

Oh, how fared my love? Once I lifted my face,
And I shook back my hair and look'd out on the sea;
I press'd my hot palms as I stood in my place,
And I cried, “Oh, I come like a king to your side
Though all hell intervene!” ... “Hist! she may be a bride,
A mother at peace, with sweet babes at her knee!
A babe at her breast and a spouse at her side!—
Had I wander'd too long, and had Destiny
Sat mortal between us?” I buried my face
In my hands, and I moan'd as I stood in my place.

'Twas her year to be young. She was tall, she was fair—
Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?
'Twas her year to be young. She was queenly and tall;
And I felt she was true, as I lifted my face
And saw her press down her rich robe to its place,

With a hand white and small as a babe's with a doll.
And her feet!—why, her feet in the white shining sand
Were so small, 'twas a wonder the maiden could stand.
Then she push'd back her hair with a round hand that shone
And flash'd in the light with a white starry stone.

Then my love she is rich! My love she is fair!
Is she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?
She is gorgeous with wealth! “Thank God, she has bread,”
I said to myself. Then I humbled my head
In gratitude deep. Then I question'd me where
Was her palace, her parents? What name did she bear?
What mortal on earth came nearest her heart?
Who touch'd the small hand till it thrilled to a smart?
'Twas her year to be young. She was rich, she was fair—
Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

Then she loosed her rich robe that was blue like the sea,
And silken and soft as a baby's new born.
And my heart it leap'd light as the sunlight at morn
At the sight of my love in her proud purity,
As she rose like a Naiad half-robed from the sea.
Then careless and calm as an empress can be

She loosed and let fall all the raiment of blue,
As she drew a white robe in a melody
Of moving white limbs, while between the two,
Like a rift in a cloud, shone her fair presence through.

Soon she turn'd, reach'd a hand; then a tall gondolier
Who had lean'd on his oar, like a long lifted spear
Shot sudden and swift and all silently,
And drew to her side as she turn'd from the tide.
It was odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer
That a princess like this, whether virgin or bride,
Should abide thus apart as she bathed in the sea;
And I chafed and I chafed, and so unsatisfied,
That I flutter'd the doves that were perch'd close about,
As I strode up and down in dismay and in doubt.

Swift she stept in the boat on the borders of night
As an angel might step on that far wonder land
Of eternal sweet life, which men mis-name Death.
Quick I called me a craft, and I caught at my breath
As she sat in the boat, and her white baby hand
Held vestments of gold to her throat, snowy white.
Then her gondola shot,—shot sharp for the shore:
There was never the sound of a song or of oar,
But the doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark,
Where the brass horses plunge their high manes in the dark.

Then I cried: “Follow fast! Follow fast! Follow fast!
Aye! thrice double fare, if you follow her true
To her own palace door!” There was plashing of oar
And rattle of rowlock. ... I sat peering through,
Looking far in the dark, peering out as we passed
With my soul all alert, bending down, leaning low.
But only the oaths of the fisherman's crew
When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot through
The watery town. Then a deep, distant roar—
The rattle of rowlock; the rush of the oar.

The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the sea ...
Swift wind like a sword at the throat of us all!
I lifted my face, and far, fitfully
The heavens breathed lightning; did lift and let fall
As if angels were parting God's curtains. Then deep
And indolent-like, and as if half asleep,
As if half made angry to move at all,
The thunder moved. It confronted me.
It stood like an avalanche poised on a hill,
I saw its black brows. I heard it stand still.

The troubled sea throbb'd as if rack'd with pain.
Then the black clouds arose and suddenly rode,
As a fiery, fierce stallion that knows no rein
Right into the town. Then the thunder strode

As a giant striding from star to red star,
Then turn'd upon earth and frantically came,
Shaking the hollow heaven. And far
And near red lightning in ribbon and skein
Did seam and furrow the cloud with flame,
And write on black heaven Jehovah's name.

Then lightning's came weaving like shuttle-cocks,
Weaving red robes of black clouds for death.
And frightened doves fluttered them home in flocks,
And mantled men hied them with gather'd breath.
Black gondolas scattered as never before,
And drew like crocodiles up on the shore;
And vessels at sea stood further at sea,
And seamen haul'd with a bended knee,
And canvas came down to left and right,
Till ships stood stripp'd as if stripp'd for fight!

Then an oath. Then a prayer. Then a gust, with rents
Through the yellow-sail'd fishers. Then suddenly
Came sharp fork'd fire! Then again thunder fell
Like the great first gun. Ah, then there was rout
Of ships like the breaking of regiments,
And shouts as if hurled from an upper hell.

Then tempest! It lifted, it spun us about,
Then shot us ahead through the hills of the sea
As a great steel arrow shot shoreward in wars—
Then the storm split open till I saw the blown stars.

On on! through the foam! through the storm! through the town!
She was gone! She was lost in that wilderness
Of leprous white palaces. ... Black distress!
I stood in my gondola. All up and all down
We pushed through the surge of the salt-flood street
Above and below. ... 'Twas only the beat
Of the sea's sad heart. ... I leaned, listened; I sat ...
'Twas only the water-rat; nothing but that;
Not even the sea-bird screaming distress,
As she lost her way in that wilderness.

I listen'd all night. I caught at each sound;
I clutch'd and I caught as a man that drown'd—
Only the sullen, low growl of the sea
Far out the flood-street at the edge of the ships;
Only the billow slow licking his lips,
A dog that lay crouching there watching for me,—
Growling and showing white teeth all the night;
Only a dog, and as ready to bite;
Only the waves with their salt-flood tears
Fretting white stones of a thousand years.

And then a white dome in the loftiness
Of cornice and cross and of glittering spire
That thrust to heaven and held the fire
Of the thunder still; the bird's distress
As he struck his wings in that wilderness,
On marbles that speak, and thrill, and inspire,—
The night below and the night above;
The water-rat building, the sea-lost dove;

That one lost, dolorous, lone bird's call,
The water-rat building,—but that was all.

Silently, slowly, still up and still down,
We row'd and we row'd for many an hour,
By beetling palace and toppling tower,
In the darks and the deeps of the watery town.
Only the water-rat building by stealth,
Only the lone bird astray in his flight
That struck white wings in the clouds of night,
On spires that sprang from Queen Adria's wealth;
Only one sea dove, one lost white dove:
The blackness below, the blackness above!

Then, pushing the darkness from pillar to post,
The morning came sullen and gray like a ghost
Slow up the canal. I lean'd from the prow,
And listen'd. Not even that dove in distress
Crying its way through the wilderness;
Not even the stealthy old water-rat now,
Only the bell in the fisherman's tower,
Slow tolling at sea and telling the hour,
To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara
For tawny fishers at sea, and to pray.

High over my head, carved cornice, quaint spire.
And ancient built palaces knock'd their gray brows
Together and frown'd. Then slow-creeping scows
Scraped the walls on each side. Above me the fire

Of a sudden-born morning came flaming in bars;
While up through the chasm I could count the stars.
Oh, pity! Such ruin! The dank smell of death
Crept up the canal: I could scarce take my breath!
'Twas the fit places for pirates, for women who keep
Contagion of body and soul where they sleep. ...

God's pity! A white hand now beckoned me
From an old mouldy door, almost in my reach.
I sprang to the sill as one wrecked to a beach;
I sprang with wide arms: it was she! it was she! ...
And in such a damn'd place! And what was her trade?
To think I had follow'd so faithful, so far
From eternity's brink, from star to white star,
To find her, to find her, nor wife nor sweet maid!
To find her a shameless poor creature of shame,
A nameless, lost body, men hardly dared name.

All alone in her shame, on that damp dismal floor
She stood to entice me. ... I bow'd me before
All-conquering beauty. I call'd her my Queen!
I told her my love as I proudly had told
My love had I found her as pure as pure gold.
I reach'd her my hands, as fearless, as clean,
As man fronting cannon. I cried, “Hasten forth
To the sun! There are lands to the south, to the north,

Anywhere where you will. Dash the shame from your brow;
Come with me, for ever; and come with me now!”

Why, I'd have turn'd pirate for her, would have seen
Ships burn'd from the seas, like to stubble from field.
Would I turn from her now? Why should I now yield,
When she needed me most? Had I found her a queen,
And beloved by the world,—why, what had I done?
I had woo'd, and had woo'd, and had woo'd till I won!
Then, if I had loved her with gold and fair fame,
Would not I now love her, and love her the same?
My soul hath a pride. I would tear out my heart
And cast it to dogs, could it play a dog's part!

“Don't you know me, my bride of the wide world of yore?
Why, don't you remember the white milky-way
Of stars, that we traversed the æons before? ...
We were counting the colors, we were naming the seas
Of the vaster ones. You remember the trees
That swayed in the cloudy white heavens, and bore

Bright crystals of sweets, and the sweet mannadew?
Why, you smile as you weep, you remember, and you,
You know me! You know me! You know me! Yea,
You know me as if 'twere but yesterday!

I told her all things. Her brow took a frown;
Her grand Titan beauty, so tall, so serene,
The one perfect woman, mine own idol queen—
Her proud swelling bosom, it broke up and down
As she spake, and she shook in her soul as she said,
With her small hands held to her bent, aching head:
“Go back to the world! Go back, and alone
Till kind Death comes and makes white as his own.”
I said: “I will wait! I will wait in the pass
Of death, until Time he shall break his glass.”

Then I cried, “Yea, here where the gods did love,
Where the white Europa was won,—she rode
Her milk-white bull through these same warm seas,—
Yea, here in the land where huge Hercules,
With the lion's heart and the heart of the dove,
Did walk in his naked great strength, and strode
In the sensuous air with his lion's skin
Flapping and fretting his knotted thews;
Where Theseus did wander, and Jason cruise,—
Yea, here let the life of all lives begin.

“Yea! Here where the Orient balms breathe life,
Where heaven is kindest, where all God's blue
Seems a great gate open'd to welcome you,
Come, rise and go forth, my empress, my wife.”
Then spake her great soul, so grander far
Than I had believed on that outermost star;
And she put by her tears, and calmly she said,
With hands still held to her bended head:
“I will go through the doors of death and wait
For you on the innermost side death's gate.

“Thank God that this life is but a day's span,
But a wayside inn for weary, worn man—
A night and a day; and, tomorrow, the spell
Of darkness is broken. Now, darling, farewell!”
I caught at her robe as one ready to die—
“Nay, touch not the hem of my robe—it is red
With sins that your cruel sex heap'd on my head!
Now turn you, yes, turn! But remember how I
Wait weeping, in sackcloth, the while I wait
Inside death's door, and watch at the gate.”

I cried yet again, how I cried, how I cried,
Reaching face, reaching hands as a drowning man might.
She drew herself back, put my two hands aside,
Half turned as she spoke, as one turned to the night:
Speaking low, speaking soft as a wind through the wall
Of a ruin where mold and night masters all;

“I shall live my day, live patient on through
The life that man hath compelled me to,

Then turn to my mother, sweet earth, and pray
She keep me pure to the Judgment Day!
I shall sit and wait as you used to do,
Will wait the next life, through the whole life through.
I shall sit all alone, I shall wait alway;
I shall wait inside of the gate for you,
Waiting, and counting the days as I wait;
Yea, wait as that beggar that sat by the gate
Of Jerusalem, waiting the Judgment Day.”

A DOVE OF ST. MARK

O terrible lion of tame Saint Mark!
Tamed old lion with the tumbled mane
Tossed to the clouds and lost in the dark,
With teeth in the air and tail-whipp'd back,
Foot on the Bible as if thy track
Led thee the lord of the desert again
Say, what of thy watch o'er the watery town?
Say, what of the worlds walking up and down?

O silent old monarch that tops Saint Mark,
That sat thy throne for a thousand years,
That lorded the deep that defied all men,—
Lo! I see visions at sea in the dark;
And I see something that shines like tears,
And I hear something that sounds like sighs,
And I hear something that seems as when
A great soul suffers and sinks and dies.

The high-born, beautiful snow came down,
Silent and soft as the terrible feet
Of time on the mosses of ruins. Sweet
Was the Christmas time in the watery town.
'Twas full flood carnival swell'd the sea
Of Venice that night, and canal and quay
Were alive with humanity. Man and maid,
Glad in mad revel and masquerade,
Moved through the feathery snow in the night,
And shook black locks as they laugh'd outright.

From Santa Maggiore, and to and fro,
And ugly and black as if devils cast out,
Black streaks through the night of such soft, white snow,

The steel-prow'd gondolas paddled about;
There was only the sound of the long oars dip,
As the low moon sail'd up the sea like a ship
In a misty morn. High the low moon rose,
Rose veil'd and vast, through the feathery snows,
As a minstrel stept silent and sad from his boat,
His worn cloak clutched in his hand to his throat.

Low under the lion that guards St. Mark,
Down under wide wings on the edge of the sea
In the dim of the lamps, on the rim of the dark,
Alone and sad in the salt-flood town,
Silent and sad and all sullenly,
He sat by the column where the crocodile
Keeps watch o'er the wave, far mile upon mile. ...
Like a signal light through the night let down,
Then a far star fell through the dim profound—
A jewel that slipp'd God's hand to the ground.

The storm had blown over! Now up and then down,
Alone and in couples, sweet women did pass,
Silent and dreamy, as if seen in a glass,
Half mask'd to the eyes, in their Adrian town.
Such women! It breaks one's heart to think.
Water! and never one drop to drink!
What types of Titian! What glory of hair!
How tall as the sisters of Saul! How fair!
Sweet flowers of flesh, and all blossoming,
As if 'twere in Eden, and in Eden's spring.

“They are talking aloud with eloquent eyes,
Yet passing me by with never one word.
O pouting sweet lips, do you know there are lies

That are told with the eyes, and never once heard
Above a heart's beat when the soul is stirr'd?
It is time to fly home, O doves of St. Mark!
Take boughs of the olive; bear these to your ark,
And rest and be glad, for the seas and the skies
Of Venice are fair. ... What! wouldn't go home?
What! drifting, and drifting as the soil'd sea-foam?

“And who then are you? You, masked and so fair?
Your half seen face is a rose full blown,
Down under your black and abundant hair? ...
A child of the street, and unloved and alone!
Unloved; and alone? ... There is something then
Between us two that is not unlike! ...
The strength and the purposes of men
Fall broken idols. We aim and strike
With high-born zeal and with proud intent.
Yet let life turn on some accident. ...

“Nay, I'll not preach. Time's lessons pass
Like twilight's swallows. They chirp in their flight,
And who takes heed of the wasting glass?
Night follows day, and day follows night,
And no thing rises on earth but to fall
Like leaves, with their lessons most sad and fit.
They are spread like a volume each year to all;
Yet men or women learn naught of it,
Or after it all but a weariness
Of soul and body and untold distress.

“Yea, sit, lorn child, by my side, and we,
We will talk of the world. Nay, let my hand
Fall kindly to yours, and so, let your face
Fall fair to my shoulder, and you shall be
My dream of sweet Italy. Here in this place,
Alone in the crowds of this old careless land,
I shall shelter your form till the morn and then—
Why, I shall return to the world and to men,
And you, not stain'd for one strange, kind word
And my three last francs, for a lorn night bird.

“Fear nothing from me, nay, never once fear.
The day, my darling, comes after the night.
The nights they were made to show the light
Of the stars in heaven, though the storms be near. ...
Do you see that figure of Fortune up there,
That tops the Dogana with toe a-tip
Of the great gold ball? Her scroll is a-trip
To the turning winds. She is light as the air.
Her foot is set upon plenty's horn,
Her fair face set to the coming morn.

“Well, trust we to Fortune. ... Bread on the wave
Turns ever ashore to the hand that gave.
What am I? A poet—a lover of all
That is lovely to see. Nay, naught shall befall. ...
Yes, I am a failure. I plot and I plan,
Give splendid advice to my fellow-man,
Yet ever fall short of achievement. ... Ah me!
In my lorn life's early, sad afternoon,
Say, what have I left but a rhyme or a rune?

An empty frail hand for some soul at sea,
Some fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to choose,
That 'twere sin to touch, and—sin to refuse?

“What! I go drifting with you, girl, to-night?
To sit at your side and to call you love?
Well, that were a fancy! To feed a dove,
A poor soil'd dove of this dear Saint Mark,
Too frighten'd to rest and too weary for flight ...
Aye, just three francs, my fortune. There! He
Who feeds the sparrows for this will feed me.
Now here 'neath the lion, alone in the dark,
And side by side let us sit, poor dear,
Breathing the beauty as an atmosphere. ...

“We will talk of your loves, I write tales of love ...
What! Cannot read? Why, you never heard then
Of your Desdemona, nor the daring men
Who died for her love? My poor white dove,
There's a story of Shylock would drive you wild.
What! Never have heard of these stories, my child?
Of Tasso, of Petrarch? Not the Bridge of Sighs?
Not the tale of Ferrara? Not the thousand whys
That your Venice was ever adored above
All other fair lands for her stories of love?

“What then about Shylock? 'Twas gold. Yes—dead.
The lady? 'Twas love. ... Why, yes; she too
Is dead. And Byron? 'Twas fame. Ah, true ...
Tasso and Petrarch? All died, just the same ...

Yea, so endeth all, as you truly have said,
And you, poor girl, are too wise; and you,
Too sudden and swift in your hard, ugly youth,
Have stumbled face fronting an obstinate truth.
For whether for love, for gold, or for fame,
They but lived their day, and they died the same.

But let's talk not of death? Of death or the life
That comes after death? 'Tis beyond your reach,
And this too much thought has a sense of strife. ...
Ah, true; I promised you not to preach. ...
My maid of Venice, or maid unmade,
Hold close your few francs and be not afraid.
What! Say you are hungry? Well, let us dine
Till the near morn comes on the silver shine
Of the lamp-lit sea. At the dawn of day,
My sad child-woman, you can go your way.

“What! You have a palace? I know your town;
Know every nook of it, left and right,
As well as yourself. Why, far up and down
Your salt flood streets, lo, many a night
I have row'd and have roved in my lorn despair
Of love upon earth, and I know well there
Is no such palace. What! and you dare
To look in my face and to lie outright,
To lift your face, and to frown me down?
There is no such palace in that part of the town!

“You would woo me away to your rickety boat!
You would pick my pockets! You would cut my throat,

With help of your pirates! Then throw me out
Loaded with stones to sink me down,
Down into the filth and the dregs of your town!
Why, that is your damnable aim, no doubt!
And, my plaintive voiced child, you seem too fair,
Too fair, for even a thought like that;
Too fair for ever such sin to dare—
Ay, even the tempter to whisper at.

“Now, there is such a thing as being true,
True, even in villainy. Listen to me:
Black-skinn'd women and low-brow'd men,
And desperate robbers and thieves; and then,
Why, there are the pirates! ... Ay, pirates reform'd—
Pirates reform'd and unreform'd;
Pirates for me girl, friends for you,—
And these are your neighbors. And so you see
That I know your town, your neighbors; and I—
Well, pardon me, dear—but I know you lie.

“Tut, tut, my beauty! What trickery now?
Why, tears through your hair on my hand like rain!
Come! look in my face: laugh, lie again
With your wonderful eyes. Lift up your brow,
Laugh in the face of the world, and lie!
Now, come! This lying is no new thing.
The wearers of laces know well how to lie,
As well, ay, better, than you or I. ...
But they lie for fortune, for fame: instead,
You, child of the street, only lie for your bread.

... “Some sounds blow in from the distant land.
The bells strike sharp, and as out of tune,
Some sudden, short notes. To the east and afar,
And up from the sea, there is lifting a star
As large, my beautiful child, and as white
And as lovely to see as some lady's white hand.
The people have melted away with the night,
And not one gondola frets the lagoon.
See! Away to the mountain, the face of morn.
Hear! Away to the sea—'tis the fisherman's horn.

“'Tis morn in Venice! My child, adieu!
Arise, sad sister, and go your way;
And as for myself, why, much like you,
I shall sell the story to who will pay
And dares to reckon it true and meet.
Yea, each of us traders, poor child of pain;
For each must barter for bread to eat
In a world of trade and an age of gain;
With just this difference, waif of the street,
You sell your body, I sell my brain.

“Poor lost little vessel, with never a keel.
Saint Marks, what a wreck! Lo, here you reel,
With never a soul to advise or to care;
All cover'd with sin to the brows and hair,
You lie like a seaweed, well a-strand;
Blown like the sea-kelp hard on the shale,
A half-drown'd body, with never a hand
Reach'd out to help where you falter and fail:
Left stranded alone to starve and to die,
Or to sell your body to who may buy.

“My sister of sin, I will kiss you! Yea,
I will fold you, hold you close to my breast;
And here as you rest in your first fair rest,
As night is push'd back from the face of day,
I will push your heavy, dark heaven of hair
Well back from your brow, and kiss you where
Your ruffian, bearded, black men of crime
Have stung you and stain'd you a thousand time;
I will call you my sister, sweet child, and keep
You close to my heart, lest you wake but to weep.

“I will tenderly kiss you, and I shall not be
Ashamed, nor yet stain'd in the least, sweet dove,—
I will tenderly kiss, with the kiss of Love,
And of Faith, and of Hope, and of Charity.
Nay, I shall be purer and be better then;
For, child of the street, you, living or dead,
Stain'd to the brows, are purer to me
Ten thousand times than the world of men,
Who reach you a hand but to lead you astray,—
But the dawn is upon us. There! go your way.

“And take great courage. Take courage and say,
Of this one Christmas when I am away,
Roving the world and forgetful of you,
That I found you as white as the snow and knew
You but needed a word to keep you true.
When you fall weary and so need rest,
Then find kind words hidden down in your breast;
And if rough men question you,—why, then say
That Madonna sent them. Then kneel and pray,
And pray for me, the worse of the two:

Then God will bless you, sweet child, and I
Shall be the better when I come to die.

“Yea, take great courage, it will be as bread;
Have faith, have faith while this day wears through.
Then rising refresh'd, try virtue instead;
Be stronger and better, poor, pitiful dear,
So prompt with a lie, so prompt with a tear,
For the hand grows stronger as the heart grows true. ...
Take courage, my child, for I promise you
We are judged by our chances of life and lot;
And your poor soul may yet pass through
The eye of the needle, where laces shall not.

“Sad dove of the dust, with tear-wet wings,
Homeless and lone as the dove from its ark,—
Do you reckon yon angel that tops St. Mark,
That tops the tower, that tops the town,
If he knew us two, if he knew all things,
Would say, or think, you are worse than I?
Do you reckon yon angel, now looking down,
Far down like a star, he hangs so high,
Could tell which one were the worse of us two?
Child of the street—it is not you!

“If we two were dead, and laid side by side
Right here on the pavement, this very day,
Here under the sun-flushed maiden sky,
Where the morn flows in like a rosy tide,
And the sweet Madonna that stands in the moon,
With her crown of stars, just across the lagoon,
Should come and should look upon you and I,—
Do you reckon, my child, that she would decide

As men do decide and as women do say,
That you are so dreadful, and turn away?

“If angels were sent to choose this day
Between us two as we rest here,
Here side by side in this storied place,—
If angels were sent to choose, I say,
This very moment the best of the two,
You, white with a hunger and stain'd with a tear,
Or I, the rover the wide world through,
Restless and stormy as any sea,—
Looking us two right straight in the face,
Child of the street, he would not choose me.

“The fresh sun is falling on turret and tower,
The far sun is flashing on spire and dome,
The marbles of Venice are bursting to flower,
The marbles of Venice are flower and foam:
Good night and good morn; I must leave you now.
There! bear my kiss on your pale, soft brow
Through earth to heaven: and when we shall meet
Beyond the darkness, poor waif of the street,
Why, then I shall know you, my sad, sweet dove;
Shall claim you, and kiss you, with the kiss of love.”

COMO

The lakes lay bright as bits of broken moon
Just newly set within the cloven earth;
The ripen'd fields drew round a golden girth
Far up the steeps, and glittered in the noon;
And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore
Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar;
The stars, as large as lilies, fleck'd the blue;
From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through
The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.

A gala night it was,—the season's prime.
We rode from castled lake to festal town,
To fair Milan—my friend and I; rode down
By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme:
And so, what theme but love at such a time?
His proud lip curl'd the while with silent scorn
At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn,
He sigh'd; then bared his temples, dash'd with gray;
Then mock'd, as one outworn and well blase.

A gorgeous tiger lily, flaming red,—
So full of battle, of the trumpets blare,
Of old-time passion, uprear'd its head.
I gallop'd past. I lean'd. I clutch'd it there
From out the stormy grass. I held it high,
And cried: “Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair
Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die
Who dares assault, for good or ill design,
The citadel where I shall set this sign.”

O, she shone fairer than the summer star,
Or curl'd sweet moon in middle destiny;
More fair than sun-morn climbing up the sea,
Where all the loves of Adriana are. ...
Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof:
The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof
Of shallow passion. ... All the while afar
From out the dance I stood and watched my star,
My tiger lily borne, an oriflamme of war.

Adown the dance she moved with matchless grace.
The world—my world—moved with her. Suddenly
I question'd whom her cavalier might be?
'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!
I clutch'd my blade; I sprang, I caught my breath,—
And so, stood leaning cold and still as death.
And they stood still. She blushed, then reach'd and tore
The lily as she pass'd, and down the floor
She strew'd its heart like jets of gushing gore ...

'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break:
He taught her this that night in splendid scorn.
I learn'd too well. ... The dance was done, ere morn
We mounted—he and I—but no more spake. ...
And this for woman's love! My lily worn
In her dark hair in pride, to then be torn
And trampled on, for this bold stranger's sake! ...
Two men rode silent back toward the lake;

Two men rode silent down—but only one
Rode up at morn to meet the rising sun.

The red-clad fishers row and creep
Below the crags as half asleep,
Nor ever make a single sound.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if a dead man should be found
By these same fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was drown'd?

SUNRISE IN VENICE

Night seems troubled and scarce asleep;
Her brows are gather'd as in broken rest.
A star in the east starts up from the deep!
'Tis morn, new-born, with a star on her breast,
White as my lilies that grow in the West!
Hist! men are passing me hurriedly.
I see the yellow, wide wings of a bark,
Sail silently over my morning star.
I see men move in the moving dark,
Tall and silent as columns are;
Great, sinewy men that are good to see,
With hair push'd back, and with open breasts;
Barefooted fishermen, seeking their boats,
Brown as walnuts, and hairy as goats,—
Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea,
First to their labors and last to their rests.

Ships are moving. I hear a horn,—
Answers back, and again it calls.
'Tis the sentinel boats that watch the town
All night, as mounting her watery walls,
And watching for pirate or smuggler. Down
Over the sea, and reaching away,
And against the east, a soft light falls,
Silvery soft as the mist of morn,
And I catch a breath like the breath of day.

The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose,
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss,
Sweet as the presence of woman is,
Rises and reaches, and widens and grows
Large and luminous up from the sea,
And out of the sea as a blossoming tree.

Richer and richer, so higher and higher,
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue;
Brighter and brighter it reaches through
The space of heaven to the place of stars.
Then beams reach upward as arms, from the sea;
Then lances and arrows are aimed at me.
Then lances and spangles and spars and bars
Are broken and shiver'd and strown on the sea;
And around and about me tower and spire
Start from the billows like tongues of fire.

VALE! AMERICA

Let me rise and go forth. A far, dim spark
Illumes my path. The light of my day
Hath fled, and yet am I far away.
The bright, bent moon has dipp'd her horn
In the darkling sea. High up in the dark
The wrinkled old lion, he looks away
To the east, and impatient as if for morn. ...
I have gone the girdle of earth, and say,
What have I gain'd but a temple gray,
Two crow's feet, and a heart forlorn?

A star starts yonder like a soul afraid!
It falls like a thought through the great profound.
Fearfully swift and with never a sound,
It fades into nothing, as all things fade;
Yea, as all things fail. And where is the leaven
In the pride of a name or a proud man's nod?
Oh, tiresome, tiresome stairs to heaven!
Weary, oh, wearysome ways to God!
'Twere better to sit with the chin on the palm,
Slow tapping the sand, come storm, come calm.

I have lived from within and not from without;
I have drunk from a fount, have fed from a hand
That no man knows who lives upon land;
And yet my soul it is crying out.
I care not a pin for the praise of men;
But I hunger for love. I starve, I die,
Each day of my life. Ye pass me by
Each day, and laugh as ye pass; and when
Ye come, I start in my place as ye come,
And lean, and would speak,—but my lips are dumb.

Yon sliding stars and the changeful moon. ...
Let me rest on the plains of Lombardy for aye,
Or sit down by this Adrian Sea and die.
The days that do seem as some afternoon
They all are here. I am strong and true
To myself; can pluck and could plant anew
My heart, and grow tall; could come to be
Another being; lift bolder hand
And conquer. Yet ever will come to me
The thought that Italia is not my land.

Could I but return to my woods once more,
And dwell in their depths as I have dwelt,
Kneel in their mosses as I have knelt,
Sit where the cool white rivers run,
Away from the world and half hid from the sun,
Hear winds in the wood of my storm-torn shore,
To tread where only the red man trod,
To say no word, but listen to God!
Glad to the heart with listening,—
It seems to me that I then could sing,
And sing as never sung man before.

But deep-tangled woodland and wild waterfall,
O farewell for aye, till the Judgment Day!
I shall see you no more, O land of mine,
O half-aware land, like a child at play!
O voiceless and vast as the push'd-back skies!
No more, blue seas in the blest sunshine,
No more, black woods where the white peaks rise,
No more, bleak plains where the high winds fall,
Or the red man keeps or the shrill birds call!

I must find diversion with another kind:
There are roads on the land, broad roads on the sea;
Take ship and sail, and sail till I find
The love that I sought from eternity;
Run away from oneself, take ship and sail
The middle white seas; see turban'd men,—
Throw thought to the dogs for aye. And when
All seas are travel'd and all scenes fail,
Why, then this doubtful, sad gift of verse
May save me from death—or something worse.

My hand it is weary, and my harp unstrung;
And where is the good that I pipe or sing,
Fashion new notes, or shape any thing?
The songs of my rivers remain unsung
Henceforward for me. ... But a man shall arise
From the far, vast valleys of the Occident,
With hand on a harp of gold, and with eyes
That lift with glory and a proud intent;
Yet so gentle indeed, that his sad heartstrings
Shall thrill to the heart of your heart as he sings.

Let the wind sing songs in the lake-side reeds,
Lo, I shall be less than the indolent wind!
Why should I sow, when I reap and bind
And gather in nothing but the thistle weeds?
It is best I abide, let what will befall;
To rest if I can, let time roll by:
Let others endeavor to learn, while I,
With naught to conceal, with much to regret,
Shall sit and endeavor, alone, to forget.

Shall I shape pipes from these seaside reeds,
And play for the children, that shout and call?

Lo! men they have mock'd me the whole year through!
I shall sing no more. ... I shall find in old creeds,
And in quaint old tongues, a world that is new;
And these, I will gather the sweets of them all.
And the old-time doctrines and the old-time signs,
I will taste of them all, as tasting old wines.

I will find new thought, as a new-found vein
Of rock-lock'd gold in my far, fair West.
I will rest and forget, will entreat to be blest;
Take up new thought and again grow young;
Yea, take a new world as one born again,
And never hear more mine own mother tongue;
Nor miss it. Why should I? I never once heard,
In my land's language, love's one sweet word.

Did I court fame, or the favor of man?
Make war upon creed, or strike hand with clan?
I sang my songs of the sounding trees,
As careless of name or of fame as the seas;
And these I sang for the love of these,
And the sad sweet solace they brought to me.
I but sang for myself, touch'd here, touch'd there,
As a strong-wing'd bird that flies anywhere.

... How do I wander! And yet why not?
I once had a song, told a tale in rhyme;
Wrote books, indeed, in my proud young prime;
I aim'd at the heart like a musket ball;
I struck cursed folly like a cannon shot,—
And where is the glory or good of it all?
Yet these did I write for my land, but this
I write for myself,—and it is as it is.

Yea, storms have blown counter and shaken me.
And yet was I fashion'd for strife, and strong
And daring of heart, and born to endure;
My soul sprang upward, my feet felt sure;
My faith was as wide as a wide-bough'd tree.
But there be limits; and a sense of wrong
Forever before you will make you less
A man, than a man at first would guess.

Good men can forgive—and, they say, forget. ...
Far less of the angel than Indian is set
In my fierce nature. And I look away
To a land that is dearer than this, and say,
“I shall remember, though you may forget.
Yea, I shall remember for aye and a day
The keen taunts thrown in a boy face, when
He cried unto God for the love of men.”

Enough, ay and more than enough, of this!
I know that the sunshine must follow the rain;
And if this be the winter, why spring again
Must come in its season, full blossom'd with bliss.
I will lean to the storm, though the winds blow strong. ...
Yea, the winds they have blown and have shaken me—
As the winds blow songs through a shattered old tree,
They have blown this broken and careless set song.

They have the sung this song, be it never bad;
Have blown upon me and play'd upon me,
Have broken the notes,—blown sad, blown glad;

Just as the winds blow fierce and free
A barren, a blighted, and a cursed fig tree.
And if I grow careless and heed no whit
Whether it please or what comes of it,
Why, talk to the winds, then, and not to me.

The quest of love? 'Tis the quest of troubles;
'Tis the wind through the woods of the Oregon.
Sit down, sit down, for the world goes on
Precisely the same; and the rainbow bubbles
Of love, they gather, or break, or blow,
Whether you bother your brain or no;
And for all your troubles and all your tears,
'Twere just the same in a hundred years.

By the populous land, or the lonesome sea,
Lo! these were the gifts of the gods to men,—
Three miserable gifts, and only three:
To love, to forget, and to die—and then?
To love in peril, and bitter-sweet pain,
And then, forgotten, lie down and die:
One moment of sun, whole seasons of rain,
Then night is roll'd to the door of the sky.

To love? To sit at her feet and to weep;
To climb to her face, hide your face in her hair;
To nestle you there like a babe in its sleep,
And, too, like a babe, to believe—it stings there!
To love! 'Tis to suffer, “Lie close to my breast,
Like a fair ship in haven, O darling!” I cried.
“Your round arms outreaching to heaven for rest

Make signal to death.”. ... Death came, and love died.
To forget? To forget, mount horse and clutch sword;
Take ship and make sail to the ice-prison'd seas,
Write books and preach lies; range lands; or go hoard
A grave full of gold, and buy wines—and drink lees:
Then die; and die cursing, and call it a prayer!
Is earth but a top—a boy-god's delight,
To be spun for his pleasure, while man's despair
Breaks out like a wail of the damn'd through the night?

Sit down in the darkness and weep with me
On the edge of the world. Lo, love lies dead!
And the earth and the sky, and the sky and the sea,
Seem shutting together as a book that is read.
Yet what have we learn'd? We laugh'd with delight
In the morning at school, and kept toying with all
Time's silly playthings. Now wearied ere night,
We must cry for dark-mother, her cradle the pall.

'Twere better blow trumpets 'gainst love, keep away
That traitorous urchin with fire or shower,
Than have him come near you for one little hour.
Take physic, consult with your doctor, as you
Would fight a contagion; carry all through
The populous day some drug that smells loud,
As you pass on your way, or make way through the crowd.

Talk war, or carouse; only keep off the day
Of his coming, with every hard means in your way.

Blow smoke in the eyes of the world, and laugh
With the broad-chested men, as you loaf at your inn,
As you crowd to your inn from your saddle and quaff
Red wine from a horn; while your dogs at your feet,
Your slim spotted dogs, like the fawn, and as fleet,
Crouch patiently by and look up at your face,
As they wait for the call of the horn to the chase;
For you shall not suffer, and you shall not sin,
Until peace goes out just as love comes in.

Love horses and hounds, meet many good men—
Yea, men are most proper, and keep you from care.
There is strength in a horse. There is pride in his will;
It is sweet to look back as you climb the steep hill.
There is room. You have movement of limb; you have air,
Have the smell of the wood, of the grasses; and then
What comfort to rest, as you lie thrown full length
All night and alone, with your fists full of strength!

Go away, go away with your bitter-sweet pain
Of love; for love is the story of troubles,
Of troubles and love, that travel together
The round world round. Behold the bubbles
Of love! Then troubles and turbulent weather.
Why, man had all Eden! Then love, then Cain!

I do not like this bit of impatience, nor do I expect any one else to like it and only preserve it here as a sort of landmark or journal in my journey through life. It is only an example of almost an entire book, written in Italy. I had, after a long struggle with myself, settled down in Italy to remain, as I believed, and as you can see was very miserable, and wrote accordingly.

ROME

I

Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome
That lords its gold cross to the skies,
While at its base a beggar cries
For bread, and dies, and—this is Rome.

II

Yet Rome is Rome, and Rome she must
And shall remain beside her gates,
And tribute take of Kings and States,
Until the stars have fallen to dust.

III

Yea, Time on yon Campagnan plain
Has pitched in siege his battle-tents;
And round about her battlements
Has marched and trumpeted in vain.

IV

These skies are Rome! The very loam
Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride;
And Time, outfaced and still defied,
Sits by and wags his beard at Rome.

“POVERIS! POVERIS!”

“Feed my sheep.”

Come, let us ponder; it is fit—
Born of the poor, born to the poor,
The poor of purse, the poor of wit,
Were first to find God's opened door—
Were first to climb the ladder round by round
That fell from heaven's door unto the ground.

God's poor came first, the very first!
God's poor were first to see, to hear,
To feel the light of heaven burst
Full on their faces. Far or near,
His poor were first to follow, first to fall!
What if at last His poor stand forth the first of all?

ATTILA'S THRONE, TORCELLO

I do recall some sad days spent
By borders of the Orient,
'Twould make a tale. It matters not.
I sought the loneliest seas; I sought
The solitude of ruins, and forgot
Mine own life and my littleness
Before this fair land's mute distress.

Slow sailing through the reedy isles,
Some sunny summer yesterdays,
I watched the storied yellow sail,
And lifted prow of steely mail
'Tis all that's left Torcello now,—
A pirate's yellow sail, a prow.

I touch'd Torcello. Once on land,
I took a sea-shell in my hand,
And blew like any trumpeter.
I felt the fig leaves lift and stir
On trees that reach from ruin'd wall
Above my head,—but that was all.
Back from the farther island shore
Came echoes trooping—nothing more.

By cattle paths grass-grown and worn,
Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn
By time and battle, lone I walk'd.
A bent old beggar, white as one
For better fruitage blossoming,
Came on. And as he came he talk'd
Unto himself; for there were none
In all his island, old and dim,
To answer back or question him.

I turn'd, retraced my steps once more.
The hot miasma steam'd and rose
In deadly vapor from the reeds
That grew from out the shallow shore,
Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds,
And Neptune shapes his horn and blows.

Yet here stood Adria once, and here
Attila came with sword and flame,
And set his throne of hollow'd stone
In her high mart. And it remains
Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears
Of mute petition fell, the rains
Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone
There lifts this massive empty throne.

I climb'd and sat that throne of stone
To contemplate, to dream, to reign—
Ay, reign above myself; to call
The people of the past again
Before me as I sat alone
In all my kingdom. There were kine
That browsed along the reedy brine,
And now and then a tusky boar
Would shake the high reeds of the shore,
A bird blow by,—but that was all.

I watch'd the lonesome sea-gull pass.
I did remember and forget,—
The past roll'd by; I lived alone.
I sat the shapely, chisell'd stone
That stands in tall, sweet grasses set;
Ay, girdle deep in long, strong grass,
And green alfalfa. Very fair
The heavens were, and still and blue,

For Nature knows no changes there.
The Alps of Venice, far away,
Like some half-risen late moon lay.

How sweet the grasses at my feet!
The smell of clover over-sweet.
I heard the hum of bees. The bloom
Of clover-tops and cherry-trees
Was being rifled by the bees,
And these were building in a tomb.
The fair alfalfa—such as has
Usurp'd the Occident, and grows
With all the sweetness of the rose
On Sacramento's sundown hills—
Is there, and that dead island fills
With fragrance. Yet the smell of death
Comes riding in on every breath.

That sad, sweet fragrance. It had sense,
And sound, and voice. It was a part
Of that which had possess'd my heart,
And would not of my will go hence,
'Twas Autumn's breath; sad as the kiss
Of some sweet worshipp'd woman is.

Some snails had climb'd the throne and writ
Their silver monograms on it
In unknown tongues. I sat thereon,
I dream'd until the day was gone;
I blew again my pearly shell,—
Blew long and strong, and loud and well;
I puff'd my cheeks, I blew as when
Horn'd satyrs piped and danced as men.

Some mouse-brown cows that fed within
Look'd up. A cowherd rose hard by,
My single subject, clad in skin,
Nor yet half-clad. I caught his eye,—
He stared at me, then turn'd and fled.
He frighten'd fled, and as he ran,
Like wild beast from the face of man,
Back o'er his shoulder threw his head.
He stopp'd, and then this subject true,
Mine only one in all the isle,
Turn'd round, and, with a fawning smile,
Came back and ask'd me for a sou!

VENICE

City at sea, thou art surely an ark,
Sea-blown and a-wreck in the rain and dark,
Where the white sea-caps are so toss'd and curl'd.
Thy sins they were many—and behold the flood!
And here and about us are beasts in stud.
Creatures and beasts that creep and go,
Enough, ay, and wicked enough I know,
To populate, or devour, a world.

O wrinkled old lion, looking down
With brazen frown upon mine and me,
From tower a-top of your watery town,
Old king of the desert, once king of the sea:
List! here is a lesson for thee to-day.
Proud and immovable monarch, I say,
Lo! here is a lesson to-day for thee,
Of the things that were and the things to be.

Dank palaces held by the populous sea
For the good dead men, all cover'd with shell,—
We will pay them a visit some day; and we,
We may come to love their old palaces well.
Bah! toppled old columns all tumbled across,
Toss'd in the waters that lift and fall,
Waving in waves long masses of moss,
Toppled old columns,—and that will be all.

I know you, lion of gray Saint Mark;
You flutter'd all seas beneath your wing.
Now, over the deep, and up in the dark,
High over the girdles of bright gaslight,
With wings in the air as if for flight,
And crouching as if about to spring

From top of your granite of Africa,—
Say, what shall be said of you some day?

What shall be said, O grim Saint Mark,
Savage old beast so cross'd and churl'd,
By the after-men from the under-world?
What shall be said as they search along
And sail these seas for some sign or spark
Of the old dead fires of the dear old days,
When men and story have gone their ways,
Or even your city and name from song?

Why, sullen old monarch of still'd Saint Mark,
Strange men of my West, wise-mouth'd and strong,
Will come some day and, gazing long
And mute with wonder, will say of thee:
“This is the Saint! High over the dark,
Foot on the Bible and great teeth bare,
Tail whipp'd back and teeth in the air—
Lo! this is the Saint, and none but he!”

A HAILSTORM IN VENICE

The hail like cannon-shot struck the sea
And churn'd it white as a creamy foam;
Then hail like battle-shot struck where we
Stood looking a-sea from a sea-girl home—
Came shooting askance as if shot at the head;
Then glass flew shiver'd and men fell down
And pray'd where they fell, and the gray old town
Lay riddled and helpless as if shot dead.

Then lightning right full in the eyes! and then
Fair women fell down flat on the face,
And pray'd their pitiful Mother with tears,
And pray'd black death as a hiding-place;
And good priests pray'd for the sea-bound men
As never good priests had pray'd for years. ...
Then God spake thunder! And then the rain!
The great, white, beautiful, high-born rain!

SANTA MARIA: TORCELLO

And yet again through the watery miles
Of reeds I row'd, till the desolate isles
Of the black-bead makers of Venice were not,
I touch'd where a single sharp tower is shot
To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent
As if it had been Time's battlement.
A city lies dead, and this great gravestone
Stands on its grave like a ghost alone.

Some cherry-trees grow here, and here
An old church, simple and severe
In ancient aspect, stands alone
Amid the ruin and decay, all grown
In moss and grasses. Old and quaint,
With antique cuts of martyr'd saint,
The gray church stands with stooping knees,
Defying the decay of seas.

Her pictured hell, with flames blown high,
In bright mosaics wrought and set
When man first knew the Nubian art;
Her bearded saints as black as jet;
Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain
And touch of pious lips of pain,
So touch'd my lonesome soul, that I
Gazed long, then came and gazed again,
And loved, and took her to my heart.

Nor monk in black, nor Capucin,
Nor priest of any creed was seen.
A sunbrown'd woman, old and tall,
And still as any shadow is,

Stole forth from out the mossy wall
With massive keys to show me this:
Came slowly forth, and, following,
Three birds—and all with drooping wing.

Three mute brown babes of hers; and they—
Oh, they were beautiful as sleep,
Or death, below the troubled deep!
And on the pouting lips of these,
Red corals of the silent seas,
Sweet birds, the everlasting seal
Of silence that the God has set
On this dead island sits for aye.

I would forget, yet not forget
Their helpless eloquence. They creep
Somehow into my heart, and keep
One bleak, cold corner, jewel set.
They steal my better self away
To them, as little birds that day
Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees.

So helpless and so wholly still,
So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise,
That I did love, despite my will.
One little maid of ten—such eyes,
So large and lovely, so divine!
Such pouting lips, such pearly cheek!
Did lift her perfect eyes to mine,
Until our souls did touch and speak—
Stood by me all that perfect day,
Yet not one sweet word could she say.

She turn'd her melancholy eyes
So constant to my own, that I
Forgot the going clouds, the sky;
Found fellowship, took bread and wine:
And so her little soul and mine
Stood very near together there.
And oh, I found her very fair!
Yet not one soft word could she say:
What did she think of all that day?

IN A GONDOLA

'Twas night in Venice. Then down to the tide,
Where a tall and a shadowy gondolier
Lean'd on his oar, like a lifted spear;—
'Twas night in Venice; then side by side
We sat in his boat. Then oar a-trip
On the black boat's keel, then dip and dip,
These boatmen should build their boats more wide,
For we were together, and side by side.

The sea it was level as seas of light,
As still as the light ere a hand was laid
To the making of lands, or the seas were made.
'Twas fond as a bride on her bridal night
When a great love swells in her soul like a sea,
And makes her but less than divinity.
'Twas night,—The soul of the day, I wis.
A woman's face hiding from her first kiss.

... Ah, how one wanders! Yet after it all,
To laugh at all lovers and to learn to scoff. ...
When you really have naught of account to say,
It is better, perhaps, to pull leaves by the way;
Watch the round moon rise, or the red stars fall;
And then, too, in Venice! dear, moth-eaten town;
One palace of pictures; great frescoes spill'd down
Outside the walls from the fullness thereof:—

'Twas night in Venice. On o'er the tide—
These boats they are narrow as they can be,
These crafts they are narrow enough, and we,

To balance the boat, sat side by side—
Out under the arch of the Bridge of Sighs,
On under the arch of the star-sown skies;
We two were together on the Adrian Sea,—
The one fair woman of the world to me.

THE CAPUCIN OF ROME

Only a basket for fruits or bread
And the bits you divide with your dog, which you
Had left from your dinner. The round year through
He never once smiles. He bends his head
To the scorn of men. He gives the road
To the grave ass groaning beneath his load.
He is ever alone. Lo! never a hand
Is laid in his hand through the whole wide land,
Save when a man dies, and he shrives him home.
And that is the Capucin monk of Rome.

He coughs, he is hump'd, and he hobbles about
In sandals of wood. Then a hempen cord
Girdles his loathsome gown. Abhorr'd!
Ay, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast out.
One gown in three years! and—bah! how he smells!
He slept last night in his coffin of stone,
This monk that coughs, this skin and bone,
This living dead corpse from the damp, cold cells,—
Go ye where the Pincian, half-level'd down,
Slopes slow to the south. These men in brown
Have a monkery there, quaint, builded of stone;
And, living or dead, 'tis the brown men's home,—
These dead brown monks who are living in Rome!

You will hear wood sandals on the sanded floor;
A cough, then the lift of a latch, then the door

Groans open, and—horror! Four walls of stone
All gorgeous with flowers and frescoes of bone!
There are bones in the corners and bones on the wall;
And he barks like a dog that watches his bone,
This monk in brown from his bed of stone—
He barks, and he coughs, and that is all.
At last he will cough as if up from his cell;
Then strut with considerable pride about,
And lead through his blossoms of bone, and smell
Their odors; then talk, as he points them out,
Of the virtues and deeds of the gents who wore
The respective bones but the year before.

Then he thaws at last, ere the bones are through,
And talks right well as he turns them about
And stirs up a most unsavory smell;
Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, till you
Wish them, as they are, no doubt, in—well,
A very deep well. ... And that may be why,
As he shows you the door and bows good-by,
That he bows so low for a franc or two,
To shrive their souls and to get them out—
These bony brown men who have their home,
Dead or alive, in their cells at Rome.

What good does he do in the world? Ah! well,
Now that is a puzzler. ... But, listen! He prays.
His life is the fast of the forty days.
He seeks the despised; he divides the bread
That he begg'd on his knees, does this old shave-head.

And then, when the thief and the beggar fell!
And then, when the terrible plague came down,
Christ! how we cried to these men in brown
When other men fled! Ah, who then was seen
Stand firm to the death like the Capucin?