Venice

Venice is old-she met Saint Mark east of the great south

sea,

And brought him over to bless her rule forever.

Venice is young-the dawn adorns her domes,

And the new moon curves over her curved lagoon and

trembles up from under the still water.

The gondolas deck themselves at sunset as if to carry

the Medici to a festival,

And then darkly pause for tourists to be rowed by shabby-

shirted gondoliers.

The pillared palaces, with lights fringing the water,

Are museums and hotels.

A shop is within the walls Giorgione painted;

A crowd streams through the Doge's Palace, long empty of

princes.

Yet still the great square thrills to the night with music

Under its bell-tower and the winged lion facing the sea.

And still Saint Mark's lifts its five domes to the sun,

Shaking its little curly fineals;

While within, rustily golden,

The high altar and the enameled walls parade their ancient

tales

In colors that sing forever.

Splendor-the beauty of splendor-Venice has this to say

Out of her gorgeous and ragged past.