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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 “ A precious thing, or choose to fing “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,
Past we glide, and past, and past !
What's that poor Agnese doing
Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing
Past we glide :
Why's the Pucci Palace flaring
Guests by hundreds, not one caring
The bee's kiss, now!
I What are we two ? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, 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 !
Say again, what we are?
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?
He speaks, musing. Lie back : could thought of mine improve you? From this shoulder let there spring A wing ; from this, another wing ; 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, 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 !
Rescue me thou, the only real !
. Still he muses.
What if the Three should catch at last
She replies, musing.
Dip your arm o'er the boat side, elbow-deep,
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,
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, 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 ? 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, Then a sweet cry, and last came youTo 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. 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, 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. Dear lory, may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain, As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again