From a Palace-Step at Venice

I muse ... on a ruined palace-step At Venice: why should I break off, nor sit Longer upon my step, exhaust the fit England gave birth to? Who’s adorable Enough reclaim a——no Sordello’s Will Alack!—be queen to me? That Bassanese Busied among her smoking fruit-boats? These Perhaps from our delicious Asolo Who twinkle, pigeons o’er the portico Not prettier, bind June lilies into sheaves To deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leaves Soiled by their own loose gold-meal? Ah, beneath The cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreath Endures a month—a half-month—if I make A queen of her, continue for her sake Sordello’s story? Nay, that Paduan girl Splashes with barer legs where a live whirl In the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weed Drifting has sucked down three, four, all indeed Save one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned post For gondolas. You sad dishevelled ghost That pluck at me and point, are you advised I breathe? Let stay those girls (e’en her disguised —Jewels i’ the locks that love no crownet like Their native field-buds and the green wheat-spike So fair! who left this end of June’s turmoil, Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil, Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free In dream, came join the peasants o’er the sea.) Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess There is such niggard stock of happiness To share, that, do one’s uttermost, dear wretch, One labours ineffectually to stretch If o’er you so that mother and children, both May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth! Divide the robe yet farther: be content With seeing just a score pre-eminent Through shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights, Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights! For, these in evidence, you clearlier claim A garb for all the rest,—grace all, the same All these my peasants. I ask youth and strength And health for each of you, not more—at length Grown wise, who asked at home that the whole race Might add the spirit’s to the body’s grace, And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards. But in this magic weather one discards Much old requirements: Venice seems a type Of Life—’twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe, As Life, the somewhat, hangs ’twixt nought and nought: ’Tis Venice, and ’tis Life—as good you sought To spare me the Piazza’s slippery stone Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone, As hinder Life the evil with the good Which make up Living, rightly understood.