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?
Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried: Past we glide!
The moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe 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.
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, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow.
What are we two?
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can
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?
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play
Than my pale one announce there is withering
Some... Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou!
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 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 To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on Summer eves?
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! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His stylet thro' my back; I reel; And... is it thou I feel?
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 accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And... on thy breast I sink!
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!
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, 'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
Row home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front's demurely
Over the Giudecca 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 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.
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!
Stay longer yet, for others' sake
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
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
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 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 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! 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, 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 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 Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others' sake.
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back
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