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And me reply to, would proclaim
At once our secret to them all.
Ask of me, too, command me, blame-
Do, break down the partition-wall
'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds !
What's left but-all of me to take?
I am the Three's : prevent them, slake
Your thirst ! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,
In practising with gems, can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage !

He sings.

I.

Past we glide, and past, and past !

Where they make the shutters fast ?

Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing
To his couch the purchased bride :

Past we glide !

II.

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!

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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.

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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 !

II.

Say again, what we are ?
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering away
Some . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou !

He muses.

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 ?

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 !
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart !
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art !

Still he muses.

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 through my back; I reel;
And ... is it thou I feel ?

II.

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 !

She replies, musing · 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,
'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.

He speaks.
Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front 's demurely
Over the Guilecca 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
Ahove you in the Smyrna peach,
That quick-the round smooth cord of gold,

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