Part 3 (1/2)

A SONG OF THE OLD VENETIANS

The seven fleets of Venice Set sail across the sea For Cyprus and for Trebizond Ayoub and Araby.

Their gonfalons are floating far, St. Mark's has heard the ma.s.s, And to the noon the salt lagoon Lies white, like burning gla.s.s.

The seven fleets of Venice-- And each its way to go, Led by a Falier or Tron, Zorzi or Dandalo.

The Patriarch has blessed them all, The Doge has waved the word, And in their wings the murmurings Of waiting winds are heard.

The seven fleets of Venice-- And what shall be their fate?

One shall return with porphyry And pearl and fair agate.

One shall return with spice and spoil And silk of Samarcand.

But nevermore shall _one_ win o'er The sea, to any land.

_Oh, they shall bring the East back, And they shall bring the West, The seven fleets our Venice sets A-sail upon her quest.

But some shall bring despair back And some shall leave their keels Deeper than wind or wave frets, Or sun ever steals._

BASKING

Give me a spot in the sun, With a lizard basking by me, In Sicily, over the sea, Where Winter is sweet as Spring, Where Etna lifts his plume Of curling smoke to try me, But all in vain for I will not climb His height so ravis.h.i.+ng.

Give me a spot in the sun, So high on a cliff that, under, Far down, the flecking sails Like white moths flit the blue; That over me on a crag There hangs, O aery wonder, A white town drowsing in its nest That cypress-tops peep thro.

Give me a spot in the sun, With contadini singing, And a goat-boy at his pipes And donkey bells heard round Upon steep mountain paths Where a peasant cart comes swinging Mid joyous hot invectives--that So blameless here abound.

Give me a spot in the sun, In a land whose speech is flowers, Whose breath is Hybla-sweet, Whose soul is still a faun's, Whose limbs the sea enlaps, Thro long delicious hours, With liquid tenderness and light Sweet as Elysian dawns.

Give me a spot in the sun With a view past vale and villa, Past grottoed isle and sea To Italy and the Cape Around whose turning lies Old heathen-hearted Scylla, Whom may an ancient sailor prayed The G.o.ds he might escape.

Give me a spot in the sun: With sly old Pan as lazy As I, ever to tempt me To disbelief and doubt Of all G.o.ds else, from Jove To Bacchus born wine-crazy.

Give me, I say, a spot in the sun, And Realms I'll do without!

SAPPHO'S DEATH SONG

(_On her sea-cliff in Leucady_)

What have I gathered the years did not take from me?

(Swallows, hear, as you fly from the cold!) Whom have I bound to me never to break from me?

(Whom, O wind of the wold?) Whom, O wind! O hunter of spirits!

(Pierce his spirit whose spear is in mine!) Then let Oblivion loose this ache from me, Proserpine!

Lyre and the laurel the Muses gave to me, (Why comes summer when winter is nigh!) Spent am I now and pain-voices rave to me.

(O sea and its cry!) O the sea that has suffered all sorrow!