Oh! all dear Venice with her towers, Her boats, her masquers boon, Her sweet chagrins, her mad, gay hours, Throbs in that ancient tune. The tenuous, vibrant chords that smite, Rebuild in subtle way The city joyous, free and light Of Canaletto's day! III CARNIVAL Venice robes her for the ball; Decked with spangles bright, Multi-coloured Carnival Teems with laughter light. Harlequin with negro mask, Tights of serpent hue, Beateth with a note fantasque His Cassander true. Flapping loose his long, white sleeve, Like a penguin spread, Through a subtle semibreve Pierrot thrusts his head. Sleek Bologna's doctor goes Maundering on a bass. Punchinello finds for nose Quaver on his face. Hurtling Trivellino fine, On a trill intent, Scaramouch to Columbine Gives the fan she lent. Gliding to the tune, I mark One veiled figure rise, While through satin lashes dark Luring gleam her eyes. Tender little edge of lace, Heaving with her breath! "Under is her own dear face!" An arpeggio saith. And beneath the mask I know Bloom of rosy lips, And the patch on chin of snow, As she by me trips! IV MOONLIGHT Amid the chatter gay and mad Saint Mark to Lido wafts, a tune Like as a rocket riseth glad As fountain riseth to the moon. But in that air with laughter stirred, That shakes its bells far out to sea, Regret, a little stifled bird, Mingles its frail sob audibly. And in a mist of memory clad, Like dream well-nigh effaced, I view The sweet Beloved, fair and sad, Of dear, long-vanished days I knew. Ah, pale she is! My soul in tears An April day remembers yet:-- We sought the violets by the meres, And in the grass our fingers met. . . The vibrant note of violin Is the child voice that struck my heart, Exquisite, plaintive, argentine, With all the anguish of its dart. So sweetly, falsely, doth it steal, So cruel, yet so tender, too, So cold, so burning, that I feel A deadly pleasure pierce me through; Until my heart, an archway deep Whose waters feed the fountain's lip, Lets tears of blood in silence weep Into my bosom drip by drip. O Carnival of Venice!--theme So chilling sad, yet ever warm! Where laughter toucheth tears supreme,-- How hast thou hurt me with thy charm! SYMPHONY IN WHITE MAJOR In the Northern tales of eld, From the Rhine's escarpments high Swan-women radiant were beheld, Singing and floating by, Or, leaving their plumage bright On a bough that was bending low, Displaying skin more gleaming white Than the white of their down of snow. At times one comes our way,-- Of all she is pallidest, White as the moonbeam's shivering ray On a glacier's icy crest. Her boreal bloom doth win Our eyes to feasting rare On rich delight of nacreous skin, And a wealth of whiteness fair. Her rounded breasts, pale globes Of snow, wage insolent war With her camellias and her robes Of whiteness nebular. In such white wars supreme She wins, and weft and flower Leave their revenge's right, and seem Yellowed with envy's hour.