Venice and the poets, ed. and illustr. by S. Thompson

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Stephen Thompson

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Стр. i - The moon is up, and yet it is not night; Sunset divides the sky with her; a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be, — Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — Where the Day joins the past Eternity, While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest!
Стр. 25 - There is a glorious city in the sea; The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt seaweed Clings to the marble of her palaces.
Стр. 43 - With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of Ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path.
Стр. 46 - Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly; — so thou art, Mighty spirit — so shall be The City that did refuge thee.
Стр. vi - Softened with the first breathings of the spring; The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, Like altars ranged along the broad canal, Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed Reared up from out the waters...
Стр. 15 - The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve. How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
Стр. 43 - Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.
Стр. 39 - Afloat ; we move. Delicious ! Ah, What else is like the gondola ? This level floor of liquid glass Begins beneath us swift to pass. It goes as though it went alone By some impulsion of its own. (How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, Were all things like the gondola...

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