Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/In a Gondola
IN A GONDOLA.
i.I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing!For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clingingCloser to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.
ii.Say after me, and try to sayMy words as if each wordCame from you of your own accord,In your own voice, in your own way:This woman's heart, and soul, and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear; which (say again)I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring;And yet once more say . . . no word more!—Since words are only words. Give o'er!Unless you call me, all the same,Familiarly by my pet-nameWhich if the Three should hear you callAnd me reply to, would proclaimAt once our secret to them all: Ask of me, too, command me, blame—Do break down the partition-wall'Twixt us the daylight world beholdsCurtained in dusk and splendid folds.
iii.What's left but—all of me to take?I am the Three's, prevent them, slakeYour thirst! 'Tis said the Arab sageIn practising with gems can looseTheir subtle spirit in his cruceAnd leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,Leave them my ashes when thy useSucks out my soul, thy heritage!
iv.1.Past we glide, and past, and past! What's that poor Agnese doingWhere they make the shutters fast? Grey Zanobi's just a-wooingTo his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide!
2.Past we glide, and past, and past! Why's the Pucci Palace flaringLike a beacon to the blast? Guests by hundreds—not one caringIf the dear host's neck were wried: Past we glide!
v.1.The Moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believeYou were not sure this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so here and thereBrush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.
2.The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up,And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
vi.1.What are we two?I am a Jew,And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,To a feast of our tribe,Where they need thee to bribeThe devil that blasts them unless he imbibeThy . . . Shatter the vision for ever! And now,As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou!
2.But again, what we are?The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the Destinies barMy plumes their full playTill a ruddier rayThan my pale one announce there is withering awaySome . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now,As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou!
vii.Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?The land's lap or the water's breast?To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,Or swim in lucid shallows, justEluding water-lily leaves,An inch from Death's black fingers, thrustTo lock you, whom release he must;Which life were best on Summer eves?
viii.Lie back; could I improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world! Rescue me thou, the only real!And scare away this mad IdealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
ix.1.He and the Couple catch at lastThy serenader; while there's castPaul's cloak about my head, and fastGian pinions me, Himself has pastHis stylet thro' my back; I reel;And . . . is it Thee I feel?
2.They trail me, these three godless knaves,Past every church that sains and saves,Nor stop till, where the cold sea ravesBy Lido's wet accursed graves,They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,And . . . on Thy breast I sink!
x.Dip your arm o'er the boat-side elbow-deepAs I do: thus: were Death so unlike Sleep,Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steelOr poison doubtless, but from water—feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grassTo plait in where the foolish jewel was,I flung away: since you have praised my hair'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
Must we, must we Home? Too surelyKnow I where its front's demurelyOver the Giudecca piled;Window just with window mating,Door on door exactly waiting,All's the set face of a child:But behind it, where's a traceOf the staidness and reserve,And formal lines without a curve,In the same child's playing-face?No two windows look one wayO'er the small sea-water threadBelow them. Ah, the autumn dayI, passing, saw you overhead!First out a cloud of curtain blew,Then a sweet cry, and last came you—To catch your loory that must needsEscape just then, of all times then,To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,And make me happiest of men.I scarce could breathe to see you reachSo far back o'er the balcony,To catch him ere he climbed too highAbove you in the Smyrna peach,That quick the round smooth cord of gold,This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,Fell down you like a gorgeous snakeThe Roman girls were wont, of oldWhen Rome there was, for coolness' sakeTo place within their bosoms.Dear loory, may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stainAs if the wounded lotus-blossomsHad marked their thief to know again!
xii.Stay longer yet, for others' sakeThan mine! what should your chamber do?—With all its rarities that acheIn silence while day lasts, but wakeAt night-time and their life renew,Suspended just to pleasure youThat brought reluctantly togetherThese objects and, while day lasts, weaveAround them such a magic tetherThat dumb they look: your harp, believe,With all the sensitive tight stringsThat dare not speak, now to itselfBreathes slumberously as if some elfWent in and out the chords his wingsGet murmurs from whene'er they graze,As may an angel thro' the mazeOf pillars on God's quest have goneAt guilty glorious Babylon.And while such murmurs flow, the nymphBends o'er the harp-top from her shell,As the dry limpet for the lymphCome with a tune he knows so well.And how your statues' hearts must swell!And how your pictures must descendTo see each other, friend with friend!Oh, could you take them by surprise,You'd find Schidone's eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesiesTo that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke:And deeper into her rock denBold Castelfranco's MagdalenYou'd find retreated from the kenOf that robed counsel-keeping Ser—As if the Tizian thinks of her!And if he is not rather bentOn trying for himself what toysAre these his progeny invent,What litter now the board employsWhereon he signed a documentThat got him murdered! Each enjoysIts night so well, you cannot breakThe sport up, so, for others' sakeThan mine, your stay must longer make!
xiii.1.To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,Is used to tie the jasmine backThat overfloods my room with sweets,Be sure that Zorzi somehow meetsMy Zanze: if the ribbon's blackI use, They're watching; keep away.
2.Your gondola—let Zorzi wreatheA mesh of water-weeds aboutIts prow, as if he unawareHad struck some quay or bridge-foot stair;That I may throw a paper outAs you and he go underneath.
There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we!Only one minute more to-night with me?Resume your past self of a month ago!Be you the bashful gallant, I will beThe lady with the colder breast than snow:Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my handMore than I touch yours when I step to land,And say, All thanks, Siora . . .Heart to heartAnd lips to lips! Once, ere we part,Make me thine as mine thou art!
xv.It was to be so, Sweet, and bestComes 'neath thine eyes, and on thy breast.Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! CareOnly to put aside thy beauteous hairMy blood will hurt. The Three I do not scornTo death, because they never lived: but IHave lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!