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 clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. _She speaks._ Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: "This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear; which," (say again) "I choose to make by cherishing A precious thing, or choose to fling Over 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-name Which, if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. * * * * * _She speaks._ 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 be The lady with the colder breast than snow: Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, "All thanks, Siora!"-- Heart to heart, And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me, and make me thine, as mine thou art! (_He is surprised and stabbed._) It was ordained to be so, Sweet,--and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, and on thy breast. Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn To death, because they never lived: but I Have lived indeed, and so--(yet one more kiss)--can die! (_In a Gondola._) The latter hours of the morning were devoted by the poet to work, proof-sheets, and correspondence. He would complain bitterly of the quantity of "ephemeral correspondence" which took up so much of his time: yet, with the rarest exceptions, he answered every letter he received. He counted that day lost in which he had not written at least a little. In earlier life he had worked fast and copiously, but now he was satisfied with twenty or thirty lines as the result of a morning's work. And upon these lines he expended infinite trouble; for, despite all suppositions to the contrary, he finished his work with great care. "People accuse me of not taking pains!" he grumbled, "I take nothing _but_ pains!"