| |
I TO come so soon to this imagined dark— | |
| More velvet-deep than any midnight park! | |
| Palaces hem me in, with blind black walls; | |
| The water is hushed for a voice that never calls. | |
| My gondolier sways silently over his oar. | 5 |
| |
II At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear, | |
| Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land, | |
| From Provence to Paris—never fear— | |
| All the heart can feel will understand. | |
| |
| A small town, a white town, | 10 |
| A town for you and me— | |
| With a Café Glacier in the square, | |
| And schooners at the quay; | |
| And the terrasse of a small hotel | |
| That looks upon the sea! | 15 |
| There gay sounds and sweet sounds | |
| And sounds of peace come through: | |
| The cook sings in the kitchen, | |
| The pink-foot ring-doves coo, | |
| And Julien brings the Pernods | 20 |
| That are bad for me and you. | |
| |
| At St. Blaise, à la Zuecca! Oh, my dear, | |
| Laugh your gentle laughter! This old land, | |
| From Provence to Paris—never fear— | |
| All the heart can feel will understand. | 25 |
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III Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea; | |
| A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines, | |
| That might shine round the graal: and we | |
| Stand very silent, underneath the pines. | |
| |
| O swift expresses for the spirit’s flight! | 30 |
| Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know, | |
| Looking roguishly back, and flying forward—so | |
| I follow, flashing after. Blessed night! | |
| |
IV Do you remember, have you been these ways, | |
| Dreaming or waking, after sunny days; | 35 |
| Sailed, in a moment, to imagined lands— | |
| With one to love you, holding both your hands— | |
| To old hot countries where the warm grape clings, | |
| And an old, musical language strikes the ear | |
| Like a caress, most exquisite to hear— | 40 |
| Your soul the voyager and your heart her wings? | |
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