Night in the Piazza

There have been times, not many, but enough To quiet all repinings of the heart; There have been times, in which my tranquil soul, No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemed Upon its axis solidly to move, Centred and fast: no mere elastic blank For random rays to traverse unretained, But rounding luminous its fair ellipse Around its central sun....

O happy hours! O compensation ample for long days Of what impatient tongues call wretchedness! O beautiful, beneath the magic moon, To walk the watery way of palaces! O beautiful, o’ervaulted with gemmed blue, The spacious court, with colour and with gold, With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points, And crosses multiplex, and lips and balls (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused); Fantastically perfect this low pile Of Oriental glory; these long ranges Of classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd, And the calm campanile. Beautiful! O beautiful! and that seemed more profound This morning by the pillar when I sat Under the great arcade, at the review, And took, and held, and ordered on my brain The faces, and the voices, and the whole mass O’ the motley facts of existence flowing by! O perfect, if ’twere all!