Venice

Not a boat is stirring

in red Venice,

not a fisherman is on the water,

not a light appears.

Alone on the sand,

the great lion lifts

its brass paw

on the calm horizon.

Around him, groups of ships

and boats

lie like herons,

sleeping

on the smoking water,

and their banners

blend in the mist

in feeble whirlwinds.

The fading moon

half-veils her brow

with a cloud

sewn with stars.

As the lady Abbess

of Sainte-Croix

settles the broad folds of her cape

over her surplice.

And the ancient palaces,

and the solemn porticos,

and the white staircases

of the knights,

and the bridges, and the streets,

and the dreary statues,

and the moving gulf

that trembles in the wind.

All is still, except for the guards

with their long halberds

keeping watch on the ramparts

of the arsenals.

Oh! Now more than one lady

listens anxiously

in the moonlight

for some young gallant.

More than one lady

is getting ready for the ball,

putting on her black mask

before her mirror.

On her perfumed couch,

Vanina still holds

her lover

as sleep overcomes her.

And mad Narcissa

in her gondola

forgets herself,

partying till dawn.

And who, in all Italy,

is not a little mad?

Who does not reserve

the days of youth for love?

Let the old clock

in the old Doge's palace

count the long boredoms

of its nights.

Beautiful, instead

let us count on your rebellious lips

so many kisses given...

or pardoned.

Let us count instead your charms,

and the sweet tears

of passion

in our eyes!