THE Golden Book Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved, Save when the curious traveller takes down A random volume, from the dusty shelf, To trace the progress of a bruited name; The Bucentaur Is shattered, and of its resplendent form There is no remnant, but some splintered morsel, Which in his cabin, as a talisman, Mournfully hangs the pious Gondolier; The Adrian sea Will never have a Doge to marry more, -- The meagre favours of a foreign lord Can hardly lead some score of humble craft With vilest merchandize into the port, That whilom held the wealth of half a world. Thy Palaces Are bartered to the careful Israelite, -- Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down In desolation, -- solemn skeletons, Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass, Or green boughs trembling o'er the trembling wall, Adorn but hide not. And are these things true, Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then past Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled, Of power and beauty? Art thou gathered To the dead cities? Is thy ministry Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought? Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth Of all existence; -- ask the Poet's heart: Thy Book has no dead tome for him, -- for him Within St. Mark's emblazoned porticoes, Thy old Nobility are walking still; -- The lowliest Gondola upon thy waters Is worth to him thy decorated Galley; He never looks upon the Adrian sea But as thy lawful tho' too faithless Spouse; And when, in the sad lustre of the moon, Thy Palaces seem beautifully wan, He blesses God that there is left on earth So marvellous, so full an antidote, For all the racks and toils of mortal life, As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WISDOM COMETH WITH THE YEARS by COUNTEE CULLEN HEART'S FIRST WORD (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE BLACK RIDERS: 22 by STEPHEN CRANE WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY by WILLIAM SHENSTONE HYMN TO SANTA RITA; THE PATRON SAINT OF THE IMPOSSIBLE by ALVEY AUGUSTUS ADEE I WOULD BE THE SUN by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |