At Venice

So now she stands by Glory’s great sea-grave And has the first fair vision of that shrine Where it lies sainted with its smile divine, Rubied in sunset, em’ralded in wave; Where the stones whisper of the masques they gave Of argosy and pageant, line on line; Till we are drunk with splendour as with wine In that broad street which molten beryls pave.

I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles, Or only of the dim Byzantine gold And time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles? And if a corner of her heart doth hold Something besides a dream of the crowned isles That ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?