Slow sailing through the reedy isles, By unknown banks, through unknown bays, Some sunny, summer yesterdays, Where Nature's beauty still beguiles, I saw the storied yellow sail And lifted prow of steely mail. 'Tis all that's left Torcello now,-- A pirate's yellow sail, a prow. Below the far, faint peaks of snow, And grass-grown causeways well below, I touched Torcello. Once a-land, I took a sea-shell in my hand, And blew like any trumpeter. I felt the fig-leaves lift and stir On trees that reached from ruined wall Above my head, but that was all. Back from the farther island shore Came echoes trooping; nothing more. Lo! here stood Adria once, and here Attila came with sword and flame, And set his throne of hollowed stone In her high mart. And it remains Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears Of mute petition fell, the rains Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone There lifts this massive empty throne! The sea has changed his meed, his mood, And made this sedgy solitude. By cattle paths grass-grown and worn, Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn By time and battle, there I walked. A bent old beggar, white as one For better fruitage blossoming, Came on. And as he came he talked Unto himself; for there are none In all his island, old and dim, To answer back or question him. I turned, retraced my steps once more. The hot miasma steamed and rose In deadly vapor from the reeds That grew from out the shallow shore, Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds, And Neptune shapes his horn and blows. I climb'd and sat that throne of stone To contemplate, to dream, to reign; Ay, reign above myself; to call The people of the past again Before me as I sat alone In all my kingdom. There were kine That browsed along the reedy brine, And now and then a tusky boar Would shake the high reeds of the shore, A bird blow by,--but that was all. I watched the lonesome sea-gull pass. I did remember and forget; The past rolled by; I stood alone. I sat the shapely chiselled stone That stands in tall sweet grasses set; Ay, girdle deep in long strong grass, And green Alfalfa. Very fair The heavens were, and still and blue, For Nature knows no changes there. The Alps of Venice, far away Like some half-risen half moon lay. How sweet the grasses at my feet! The smell of clover over sweet. I heard the hum of bees. The bloom Of clover-tops and cherry-trees Were being rifled by the bees, And these were building in a tomb.