The ropes of the litter creak and groan As the bearers turn down the steep path; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet. But the Roman poet lies back confident On his magenta cushions and mattresses, Thinks of Greek bronzes At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves. The slaves' breasts shine with sweat, And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air As they lurch through tunnel after tunnel of leaves. At last, where the spray swirls like smoke, And the river roars in a cauldron of green, The poet feels his fat arms quiver And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted In the reverberance of the fall. The ropes of the litter creak and groan, The embroidered curtains, moist with spray, Flutter in the poet's face; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet As the slaves strain up the path again, And the Roman poet lies back confident Among silk cushions of gold and magenta, His hands clasped across his mountainous belly, Thinking of the sibyll and fate, And gorgeous and garlanded death, Mouthing hexameters. But I, my belly full and burning as the sun With the good white wine of the Alban hills Stumble down the path Into the cool green and the roar, And wonder, and am abashed. IV VENICE The doge goes down in state to the sea To inspect with beady traders' eyes New cargoes from Crete, Mytilene, Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piled With bales off which in all the days Of sailing the sea-wind has not blown The dust of Arabian caravans. In velvet the doge goes down to the sea. And sniffs the dusty bales of spice Pepper from Cathay, nard and musk, Strange marbles from ruined cities, packed In unfamiliar-scented straw. Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun. Marmosets pull at the pompous gowns Of burgesses. Parrots scream And cling swaying to the ochre bales ... Dazzle of the rising dust of trade Smell of pitch and straining slaves ... And out on the green tide towards the sea Drift the rinds of orient fruits Strange to the lips, bitter and sweet. V ASOLO GATE The air is drenched to the stars With fragrance of flowering grape Where the hills hunch up from the plain To the purple dark ridges that sweep Towards the flowery-pale peaks and the snow. Faint as the peaks in the glister of starlight, A figure on a silver-tinkling snow-white mule Climbs the steeply twining stony road Through murmuring vineyards to the gate That gaps with black the wan starlight. The watchman on his three-legged stool Drowses in his beard, dreams He is a boy walking with strong strides Of slender thighs down a wet road, Where flakes of violet-colored April sky Have brimmed the many puddles till the road Is as a tattered path across another sky.