If I had been an unconnected man, I, from this moment, should have formed some plan Never to leave sweet Venice,--for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea; _550 And then, the town is silent--one may write Or read in gondolas by day or night, Having the little brazen lamp alight, Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair _555 Which were twin-born with poetry, and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regrets for the green country. I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit And subtle talk would cheer the winter night _560 And make me know myself, and the firelight Would flash upon our faces, till the day Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay: But I had friends in London too: the chief Attraction here, was that I sought relief _565 From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me--'twas perhaps an idle thought-- But I imagined that if day by day I watched him, and but seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart _570 With zeal, as men study some stubborn art For their own good, and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind, I might reclaim him from this dark estate: In friendships I had been most fortunate-- _575 Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend; and this was all Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go in crowds or solitude And leave no trace--but what I now designed _580 Made for long years impression on my mind. The following morning, urged by my affairs, I left bright Venice. After many years And many changes I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; _585 But Maddalo was travelling far away Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead. His child had now become A woman; such as it has been my doom To meet with few,--a wonder of this earth, _590 Where there is little of transcendent worth, Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she, And, with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, _595 And told as she had heard the mournful tale: 'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure, but that then The lady who had left him, came again. Her mien had been imperious, but she now _600 Looked meek--perhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better, and they stayed Together at my father's--for I played, As I remember, with the lady's shawl-- I might be six years old--but after all _605 She left him.'...'Why, her heart must have been tough: How did it end?' 'And was not this enough? They met--they parted.'--'Child, is there no more?'