ONE eve it happened, when I sate alone, Alone, upon the terrace of my tower, A book upon my knees, to counterfeit The reading that I never read at all, While Marian, in the garden down below, Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill The drowsy silence of the exhausted day) And peeled a new fig from that purple heap In the grass beside her,—turning out the red To feed her eager child, who sucked at it With vehement lips across a gap of air As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame With that last sun-ray, crying, ‘give me, give,’ And stamping with imperious baby-feet, (We’re all born princes)—something startled me,— The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks Abruptly, as if frightened at itself; ’Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh, And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book, And knew, the first time, ’twas Boccaccio’s tales, The Falcon’s,—of the lover who for love Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more. Laugh _you_, sweet Marian! you’ve the right to laugh, Since God himself is for you, and a child! For me there’s somewhat less,—and so, I sigh. The heavens were making room to hold the night, The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates To let the stars out slowly (prophesied In close-approaching advent, not discerned), While still the cue-owls from the cypresses Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually The purple and transparent shadows slow Had filled up the whole valley to the brim, And flooded all the city, which you saw As some drowned city in some enchanted sea, Cut off from nature,—drawing you who gaze, With passionate desire, to leap and plunge, And find a sea-king with a voice of waves, And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks You cannot kiss but you shall bring away Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down, So deep; and fifty churches answer it The same, with fifty various instances. Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets; The Pitti’s palace-front is drawn in fire; And, past the quays, Maria Novella’s Place, In which the mystic obelisks stand up Triangular, pyramidal, each based On a single trine of brazen tortoises, To guard that fair church, Buonarroti’s Bride, That stares out from her large blind dial-eyes, Her quadrant and armillary dials, black With rhythms of many suns and moons, in vain Enquiry for so rich a soul as his,— Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so clear.... And, oh my heart, ... the sea-king! In my ears The sound of waters. There he stood, my king!