Poems (Scudder)/Via Della Madonetta
VIA DELLA MADONETTA
The dearest street in Venice lies Not to be found by careless eyes, A ribbon of the seaweed's green It turns and twists the walls between So narrow that one's elbow may The tinted plaster rub away, And if the swarthy gondolier Another plashing oar should hear He cries a warning, wailful, sweet, Lest the opposing prows should meet. See, there's a house all rosy white Around whose foot the tangled light And shadow whirling silently Are delicate as when we see The princess of a fairy dream Dipping her soft limbs in the stream: But yonder house of fawn and gold Is some proud courtesan of old, Tullia of Aragon arrayed In gown of amber-hued brocade, Nor doth she fear her shoon to wet With diamonds and topaz set, A princely lover's gift, nor wear The yellow veil to hide her hair. And here's a house whose vivid blue Shades to a luscious violet hue, And this I like the best of all, For in a niche against the wall The Madonetta's self doth stand, And scarcely taller than my hand, Of plaster shapen clumsily And crudely painted it may be, But still, I love her oval face, Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace Of drooping head and arm too frail To hold that heavy baby. Pale The cheek that once was painted pink, Faded the crimson mouth. I think So wistful sweet she is and small That I would dare to whisper all My littlest sins to her, for she Would never frown and frighten me. She is not proud and stiff and great Like the Madonna was who sate Above the altar looking down In cloth of gold and jewelled crown. I think of her each windy night, How by the smoking candles' light She watches with her patient eyes Such mimic storms as may arise Within the wee canal. Each day Do I salute her on my way Along the via, and I bring For her some dainty offering Two yellow marigolds as bright As are the gilded roses dight Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet, A tiny sprig of mignonette.