The watchman on his three-legged stool, Sits snoring in his beard; His dream is full of flowers massed in meadowland, Of larks and thrushes singing in the dawn, Of touch of women's lips and twining hands, And madness of the sprouting spring ... His ears a-sudden ring with the shrill cry: Open watchman of the gate, It is I, the Cyprian. --It is ruled by the burghers of this town Of Asolo, that from sundown To dawn no stranger shall come in, Be he even emperor, or doge's kin. --Open, watchman of the gate, It is I, the Cyprian. --Much scandal has been made of late By wandering women in this town. The laws forbid the opening of the gate Till next day once the sun is down. --Watchman know that I who wait Am Queen of Jerusalem, Queen Of Cypress, Lady of Asolo, friend Of the Doge and the Venetian State. There is a sound of drums, and torches flare Dims the star-swarm, and war-horns' braying Drowns the fiddling of crickets in the wall, Hoofs strike fire on the flinty road, Mules in damasked silk caparisoned Climb in long train, strange shadows in torchlight, The road that winds to the city gate. The watchman, fumbling with his keys, Mumbles in his beard:--Had thought She was another Cyprian, strange the dreams That come when one has eaten tripe. The great gates creak and groan, The hinges shriek, and the Queen's white mule Stalks slowly through. The watchman, in the shadow of the wall, Looks out with heavy eyes:--Strange, What cavalcade is this that clatters into Asolo? These are not men-at-arms, These ruddy boys with vineleaves in their hair! That great-bellied one no seneschal Can be, astride an ass so gauntily! Virgin Mother! Saints! They wear no clothes! And through the gate a warm wind blows, A dizzying perfume of the grape, And a great throng crying Cypris, Cyprian, with cymbals crashing and a shriek Of Thessalian pipes, and swaying of torches, That smell hot like wineskins of resin, That flare on arms empurpled and hot cheeks, And full shouting lips vermillion-red. Youths and girls with streaming hair Pelting the night with flowers: Yellow blooms of Adonis, white scented stars of pale Narcissus, Mad incense of the blooming vine, And carmine passion of pomegranate blooms. A-sudden all the strummings of the night, All the insect-stirrings, all the rustlings Of budding leaves, the sing-song Of waters brightly gurgling through meadowland, Are shouting with the shouting throng, Crying Cypris, Cyprian, Queen of the seafoam, Queen of the budding year, Queen of eyes that flame and hands that twine, Return to us, return from the fields of asphodel.