I had turned from the lion a time, and when I looked tow’rd the tide and out on the lea Of the town where the warm sea tumbled and teemed With beauty, I saw her. I knew her then, The tallest, the fairest fair daughter of men. O, Venice stood full in her glory. She gleamed In the splendor of sunset and sensuous sea; Yet I saw but my bride, my affinity, While the doves hurried home to the dome of Saint Mark And the brass horses plunged their high manes in the dark, VI. Was it well with my love? Was she true? Was she brave With virtue’s own valor? Was she waiting for me? O, how fared my love! Had she home? Had she bread? Had she known but the touch of the warm-tempered wave? Was she born upon earth with a crown on her head; Or born like myself, but a dreamer, instead? So long it had been! So long! Why the sea, That wrinkled and surly old time-tempered slave, Had been born, had his revels, grown wrinkled and hoar Since I last saw my love on that uttermost shore. VII. O, how fared my love? Once I lifted my face And I shook back my hair and looked out on the sea; I pressed my hot palms as I stood in my place And cried, “O, I come like a king to your side Though all hell intervene.” . . . “Hist! she may be a bride! A mother at peace, with sweet babes on her knee! A babe at her breast and a spouse at her side! . . . Have I wandered too long, and has destiny Set mortal between us?” I buried my face In my hands, and I moaned as I stood in my place. VIII. ‘Twas her year to be young. She was tall, she was fair Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there? ‘Twas her year to be young. She was fair, she was tall And I knew she was true as I lifted my face And saw her press down her rich robe to its place With a hand white and small as a babe’s with a doll, And her feet--why, her feet, in the white shining sand, Were so small they might nest in my one brawny hand. Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone And flashed in the light with a white starry stone. IX. Then, my love she was rich. My love she was fair. Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there? She was gorgeous with wealth, “Thank God, she has bread,” I said to myself. Then I humbled my head In gratitude. Then I questioned me where Was her palace? her parents? What name did she bear? What mortal on earth came nearest her heart? Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart? ‘Twas her day to be young. She was proud, she was fair. Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there? X.