Feeding the Pigeons--Venice

She is a chrysolite! her manners, too, Are pure Venetian, haughty, yet endearing. Didst ever see, my Claudio, such a bearing? Just watch her as the pigeons round her woo For more caresses,—voice like some dove’s coo, And with that face so saint-like yet so daring— By Bacchus! as you say here in your swearing, She is as perfect as a drop of dew! Yet she is of the South—the counterpart Of vengeance with its hidden venomed dart.... Hush! for the gargoyles hear!... Though white as curds That sweet soft hand—the hand that feeds the birds— If you should hint about it certain words, Would plunge its poisoned poniard through your heart.