The Bride of the Sea

There are cities high over Orion That jasper and sardonyx be; Whose streets it were joy but to lie on, Whose walls it were bliss but to see; Many sumptuous cities fair Dian Beholds over mountain and lea, But the Bride, ’neath the wings of her Lion,— Where is one such as she?

She is crowned with her triumphs and towers, And blue run the veins in her arms; Like the lotus, afloat with her flowers, Her whiteness hath wonderous charms; Delicious her lips are, with powers Circean, yet void of alarms; And the mortal that dreams of her bowers Leaves his soul in her arms.

Yet should time, ever eager, though olden, Her fairness despoil and depose; Should her domes, which at evening are golden, Dissolve as her Apennine snows; Should the sceptre, which long she hath holden, Depart, and the crown from her brows, And the robes of her splendour be rolled in The gray dust of her woes;

Should the glory grow dim of her Titians, Her gondolas drift ’neath the moon; Should her marbles, mosaics, Venetians, Evanish and pass as a swoon; Should her forehead, the fairest of visions, Sink under the silent lagoon, And the sea, tombing all her traditions, Leave a waste for the loon;

Should she melt as a mist evanescent, Or fade as a myth from a scroll,— Yet her wraith would arise juvenescent, Aglow with a great aureole; Still her glamour eternally crescent, Supreme o’er the spirit would roll; And her Name, as a star iridescent, Light the sky of the soul.

Though in regions celestial there are lands— Bright lands it were bliss but to see, Whose towers, built high over star lands, Of beryl and sardonyx be: Though cities in fabulous far lands Loom fair over mountain and lea,— Yet on earth, in her gloom, or her garlands, Who so comely as she!