GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN

O epic-famed, god-haunted Central Sea,

Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee

When from Torino's track I saw thy face first flash on me.

And multimarbled Genova the Proud,

Gleam all unconscious how, wide-lipped, up-browed,

I first beheld thee clad — not as the Beauty but the Dowd.

Out from a deep-delved way my vision lit

On housebacks pink, green, ochreous — where a slit

Shoreward‘ twixt row and row revealed the classic blue through it.

And thereacross waved fishwives’ high-hung smocks,

Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned underfrocks;

Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O Queen, that frippery mocks:

Whereat I grieve, Superba!... Afterhours

Within Palazzo Doria's orange bowers

Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers.

But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see,

Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more be

Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee.