Rialto lies behind.

And by me the Salute swings,

A loveliness that must take wings

And vanish, as imaginings

Within an Afrit's mind;

As vague and vast imaginings

That can no substance find.

My gondola is a black sea-swan:

San Marco and the shaft

Of the slim Campanile steal

Into my trance and leave a seal

Upon my senses, like the feel

Of long enchantment quaffed:

[Pg 30]

Of long enchantments such as songs

Of sage Al Raschid waft.

My gondola is a black sea-swan

And gains to the lagoon,

Where samphire and sea-lavender

Around me float or softly stir,

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