In A Gondola

He sings.     I send my heart up to thee, all my heart     In this my singing.     For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;     The very night is clinging     Closer to Venice streets to leave one space     Above me, whence thy face     May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.     She speaks.     Say after me, and try to say     My very words, as if each word     Came from you of your own accord,     In your own voice, in your own way:     This womans 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 fling     Over the boat-side, ring by ring.     And yet once more say . . . no word more!     Since words are only words. Give oer!     Unless you call me, all the same,     Familiarly by my pet name,     Which if the Three should hear you call,     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!     Whats left but all of me to take?     I am the Threes: 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!     Whats that poor Agnese doing     Where they make the shutters fast?     Grey Zanobis just a-wooing     To his couch the purchased bride:     Past we glide! II     Past we glide, and past, and past!     Whys the Pucci Palace flaring     Like a beacon to the blast?     Guests by hundreds, not one caring     If the dear hosts neck were wried:     Past we glide!     She sings. I.     The moths 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 open burst. II     The bees 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.     He sings. 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 . . . Shatter 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 . . . Shatter 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 lands lap or the waters breast?     To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,     Or swim in lucid shallows just     Eluding water-lily leaves,     An inch from Deaths 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 oer 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. I.     What if the Three should catch at last     Thy serenader? While theres cast     Pauls 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? II     They trail me, these three godless knaves,     Past every church that saints and saves,     Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves     By Lidos wet accursed graves,     They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,     And . . . on Thy breast I sink     She replies, musing.     Dip your arm oer the boat-side, elbow-deep,     As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,     Caught this way? Deaths 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.     He speaks.     Row home? must we row home? Too surely     Know I where its fronts demurely     Over the Giudecca piled;     Window just with window mating,     Door on door exactly waiting,     Alls the set face of a child:     But behind it, wheres a trace     Of the staidness and reserve,     And formal lines without a curve,     In the same childs playing-face?     No two windows look one way     Oer 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 loory that must needs     Escape just then, of all times then,     To peck a tall plants fleecy seeds,     And make me happiest of men.     I scarce could breathe to see you reach     (So far back oer 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 oer their bosoms.     Dear loory, 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     That 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 wheresoeer they graze,     As an angel may, between the maze     Of midnight palace-pillars, on     And on, to sow Gods plagues, have gone     Through guilty glorious Babylon.     And while such murmurs flow, the nymph     Bends oer 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,     Youd find Schidones eager Duke     Doing the quaintest courtesies     To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!     And, deeper into her rock den,     Bold Castelfrancos Magdalen     Youd 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.     She speaks. I.     To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,     Is used to tie the jasmine back     That overfloods my room with sweets,     Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets     My Zanze! If the ribbons black,     The Three are watching: keep away! II     Your gondola, let Zorzi wreathe     A mesh of water-weeds about     Its prow, as if he unaware     Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!     That I may throw a paper out     As you and he go underneath.     Theres Zanzes vigilant taper; safe are we!     Only one minute more to-night with me?     Resume your past self of a month ago!     Be you the bashful gallant, I will be     The lady with the colder breast than snow.     Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand     More than I touch yours when I step to land,     And say, All thanks, Siora!     Heart to heart     And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,     Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!     He is surprised, and stabbed     It was ordained to be so, sweet! and best     Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.     Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care     Only to put aside thy beauteous hair     My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn     To death, because they never lived: but I     Have lived indeed, and so, (yet one more kiss), can die!