III

 

    • I sat on the Dogana's steps
    • For the gondolas cost too much, that year,
    • And there were not "those girls", there was one face,
    • And the Buccentoro twenty yards off, howling "Stretti",
    • And the lit cross-beams, that year, in the Morosini,
    • And peacocks in Koré's house, or there may have been.
    •           Gods float in the azure air,
    • Bright gods and Tuscan, back before dew was shed.
    • Light: and the first light, before ever dew was fallen.
    • Panisks, and from the oak, dryas,
    • And from the apple, mælid,
    • Through all the wood, and the leaves are full of voices,
    • A-whisper, and the clouds bowe over the lake,
    • And there are gods upon them,
    • And in the water, the almond-white swimmers,
    • The silvery water glazes the upturned nipple,
    • As Poggio has remarked.
    • Green veins in the turquoise,
    • Or, the gray steps lead up under the cedars.

    • My Cid rode up to Burgos,
    • Up to the studded gate between two towers,
    • Beat with his lance butt, and the child came out,
    • Una niña de nueve años,
    • To the little gallery over the gate, between the towers,
    • Reading the writ, voce tinnula:
    • That no man speak to, feed, help Ruy Diaz,
    • On pain to have his heart out, set on a pike spike
    • And both his eyes torn out, and all his goods sequestered,
    • "And here, Myo Cid, are the seals,
    • The big seal and the writing."
    • And he came down from Bivar, Myo Cid,
    • With no hawks left there on their perches,
    • And no clothes there in the presses,
    • And left his trunk with Raquel and Vidas,
    • That big box of sand, with the pawn-brokers,
    • To get pay for his menie;
    • Breaking his way to Valencia.
    • Ignez da Castro murdered, and a wall
    • Here stripped, here made to stand.
    • Drear waste, the pigment flakes from the stone,
    • Or plaster flakes, Mantegna painted the wall.
    • Silk tatters, "Nec Spe Nec Metu."
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