Far off the City lies,—her domes of white
Touched by the rising sun. As some fair maid,
She blushes at her lover's kiss, now laid
Upon her brow. Only a poet might
Conjure such sea-throned vision of delight;
Noise and harsh clangor do not there invade
Streets that are silent as a Druid glade,—
O Rose of Dawn and Lily of the Night!

And now the evening gilds the gondolier
Where the inverted City, mirrored, floats;
And o'er the shipping slowly climbs the moon,
While masts are motionless on all the boats,—
Still as the Lombard-poplars when the air
Stirs not a ripple on the hushed Lagoon.