Ode On Venice I.

Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!

If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?--anything but weep
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers--as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets.
Oh! Agony-that centuries should reap
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng
Of gondolas--and to the busy hum
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overbeating of the heart,
And flow of too much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirit soaring--albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek:
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,
And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy,
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 
 

George Gordon Lord Byron , 1788-1824

Venedig

Im Norden
Frieren die Götter.
Hier
Strahlt jeder Gauner: ein heisser Gott.

Seines Tempels Stufen
Steigen aus dem Canale grande.
Er opfert
Sein südliches Herz sich selbst.

Die Sbirren schleichen
Zur Dämmerung.
Am Himmel segelt
Eine Gondel.

Die Adria
Brandet an meine Brust.

Klabund, 1890-1928

A thing of beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: 
Its lovliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways 
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

John Keats, 1795-1821

Apollonius of Rhodes tells how Selene, the Titan goddess of the moon, fell in love with the mortal Endymion. He looked so beautiful that she asked his father Zeus to grant him eternal youth so that he could never leave her. Zeus agreed and put Endymion into an eternal sleep. Selene visited him every night, and they had 50 daughters - thought to equate the 50 months of the Olympiad. 

Picture taken by us during a Venice visit in 2007. Obelisk and statues by Sansovino on the roof of the Marciana Library at St. Mark's Square.

Beneath is spread like a green sea 

The waveless plain of Lombardy, 

Bounded by the vaporous air, 

Islanded by cities fair; 

Underneath Day's azure eyes 

Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 

A peopled labyrinth of walls, 

Amphitrite's destin'd halls, 

Which her hoary sire now paves 

With his blue and beaming waves. 

Lo! the sun upsprings behind, 

Broad, red, radiant, half-reclin'd 

On the level quivering line 

Of the water crystalline; 

And before that chasm of light, 

As within a furnace bright, 

Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 

Shine like obelisks of fire, 

Pointing with inconstant motion 

From the altar of dark ocean 

To the sapphire-tinted skies; 

As the flames of sacrifice 

From the marble shrines did rise, 

As to pierce the dome of gold 

Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792–1822

Excerpt from "View from the "uganean Hills".

Picture taken by us during a Venice visit in 2007. 

The Color of a Queen, is this—
The Color of a Sun
At setting—this and Amber—
Beryl—and this, at Noon—
 
And when at night—Auroran widths
Fling suddenly on men—
'Tis this—and Witchcraft—nature keeps
A Rank—for Iodine— 

Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Picture taken in Burano in 2007. Burano is an island at the northern end of the Venetian lagoon. The colours oft its houses follow a specific system originating from the golden age of its development. If someone wishes to paint their home, the government tells what colour is permitted.

Color - Caste - Denomination -

These - are Time's Affair -

Death's diviner Classifying

Does not know they are -

As in sleep - all Hue forgotten -

Tenets - put behind -

Death's large - Democratic fingers

Rub away the Brand -

If Circassian - He is careless -

If He put away

Chrysalis of Blonde - or Umber -

Equal Butterfly -

They emerge from His Obscuring -

What Death - knows so well -

Our minuter intuitions -

Deem unplausible –

Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Picture of Murano glass bonbons taken during a visit to Murano 2007.

Glass

O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide,

Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide;
To let in all the useful Beams of Day,
Yet force, as subtil Winds, without thy Shash to stay;
T'extract from Embers by a strange Device,
Then polish fair these Flakes of solid Ice;
Which, silver'd o'er, redouble all in place,
And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion'd Face.
To Vessels blown exceed the gloomy Bowl,
Which did the Wine's full excellence controul,
These shew the Body, whilst you taste the Soul.
Its colour sparkles Motion, lets thee see,
Tho' yet th' Excess the Preacher warns to flee,
Lest Men at length as clearly spy through Thee.

Anne Finch, 1661-1720

Picture taken in Murano 2007.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
 

Call the roller of big cigars,

The muscular one, and bid him whip

In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Let the wenches dawdle in such dress

As they are used to wear, and let the boys

Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.

Let be be finale of seem.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet

On which she embroidered fantails once

And spread it so as to cover her face.

If her horny feet protrude, they come

To show how cold she is, and dumb.

Let the lamp affix its beam.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Wallace Stevens, 1879–1955

Bild aufgenommen in Venedig 2007.

 They ask but our Delight—
The Darlings of the Soil
And grant us all their Countenance
For a penurious smile.

Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886
 
Picture taken somewhere in all the delights of Venice in 2007.

 Sea-Gull in Venice

Sea-bird, skimmer of the waves,
Whither doth thy journey tend?
Is it to some southern shore,
Where the meadow-rushes bend,
Where the orange-blossoms blow,
Where the aloe and the palm
Flourish, and magnolias glow,
Filling all the air with balm?

Rather is thy pilgrim wing
Fleeting to some northern bar,
Where the rocky reef juts out,
And the sand-beach stretches far?
There in hot and silvery sand
All thy pearly eggs to lay,
There to teach thy little brood
O'er the tumbling surf to play.

Haply sailing o'er the brine,
Painted 'gainst a lurid sky,
On the gray horizon's verge
Thou dost even now descry
Some lone bark with shatter'd mast,
Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail,
Fighting with the ocean-blast,
Lost in shipwreck and in gale.

Restless, roving, lonely bird,
Wanderer of tlie pathless seas,
Now where tropic woods are stirr'd,
Now where floating icebergs freeze;
Seldom doth the solid shore
See thy wings expand no more.

 Isaac McLellan, 1806-1899

Bild in der Nähe des Markusplatzes in Venedig 2007.

 A Masque Of Venice

(A Dream.)
 
 Not a stain,
 In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky-
 Not a ripple on the black translucent lane
 Of the palace-walled lagoon.
 Not a cry
 As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by,
 Through the golden afternoon.
 
 From this height
 Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o'erjuts
 Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light
 Shimmer soft beneath the bridge,
 That abuts
 On a labyrinth of water-ways and shuts
 Half their sky off with its ridge.
 
 We shall mark
 All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours,
 Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark
 To their music as they fare.
 Scent their flowers
 Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers
 Through the laughter-ringing air.
 
 See! they come,
 Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans,
 With the mandoline, viol, and the drum,
 Gems afire on arms ungloved,
 Fluttering fans,
 Floating mantles like a great moth's streaky vans
 Such as Veronese loved.
 
 But behold
 In their midst a white unruffled swan appear.
 One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold,
 White its tasseled, silver prow.
 Who is here?
 Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear,
 Clad in glittering silken snow?
 
 Cheek and chin
 Where the mask's edge stops are of the hoar-frosts hue,
 And no eyebeams seem to sparkle from within
 Where the hollow rings have place.
 Yon gay crew
 Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue.
 'T is our sport to watch the race.
 
 At his side
 Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance,
 From her forehead, shines the splendor of a bride,
 And her feet seem shod with wings,
 To entrance,
 For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance,
 Like Salome at the King's.
 
 'T is his aim
 Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast,
 Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game.
 Ah, she fears him overmuch!
 Is it jest,-
 Is it earnest? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed
 In her horror of his touch.
 
 For each time
 That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray
 From the glory of her beauty in its prime;
 And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance
 Is no play
 'Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay-
 But the whirl of fate and chance.
 
 Where the tide
 Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea,
 There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride.
 Hark, one helpless, stifled scream!
 Must it be?
 Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye?
 Was all Venice such a dream?

Emma Lazarus, 1849-1887

Picture taken from a window in Venice in 2007.

Venedig

Die junge Nacht liegt wie ein kühler Duft
auf dem Canal , und grauer nun und greiser
sind die Paläste und die Gondeln leiser,
als führte jede einen toten Kaiser
in seine Gruft.
Und viele fahren, aber eine schwenkt
jetzt scheu und ängstlich in die tiefsten Gassen,
weil tiefste Liebe oder tiefstes Hassen
ihr Steuer lenkt.
Vor einem Marmorhaus mit staubger Zier
drängt sie sich horchend an die Wappenpfähle.
Und lange ruhte keine Gondel hier.
Die Stufen warten. - Fern aus heller Kehle
am Canal grande singt ein Gondolier,
und suchend irrt sein Lied durch die Kanäle.
Der Fremde steht und trinkt den Klang voll Gier,
in lauter Lauschen löst sich seine Seele:
Vorrei morir...

Rainer Maria Rilke, 1875-1926

Bild in der Lagune 2007.