SANTA MARIA: TORCELLO.
Joaquin Miller
nd yet again through the watery miles - Of reeds I row'd, till the desolate isles
- Of the black-bead makers of Venice were not.
- I touch'd where a single sharp tower is shot
- To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent
- As if it had been Time's battlement.
- A city lies dead, and this great grave-stone
- Stands on its grave like a ghost alone.
- Some cherry-trees grow here, and here
- An old church, simple and severe
- In ancient aspect, stands alone
- Amid the ruin and decay, all grown
- In moss and grasses. Old and quaint,
- With antique cuts of martyr'd saint,
- The gray church stands with stooping knees,
- Defying the decay of seas.
- Her pictured hell, with flames blown high,
- In bright mosaics wrought and set
- When man first knew the Nubian art;
- Her bearded saints as black as jet;
- Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain
- And touch of pious lips of pain,
- So touch'd my lonesome soul, that I
- Gazed long, then came and gazed again,
- And loved, and took her to my heart.
- Nor monk in black, nor Capucin,
- Nor priest of any creed was seen.
- A sunbrown'd woman, old and tall,
- And still as any shadow is,
- Stole forth from out the mossy wall
- With massive keys to show me this:
- Came slowly forth, and, following,
- Three birds and all with drooping wing.
- Three mute brown babes of hers; and they—
- Oh, they were beautiful as sleep,
- Or death, below the troubled deep!
- And on the pouting lips of these,
- Red corals of the silent seas,
- Sweet birds, the everlasting seal
- Of silence that the God has set
- On this dead island sits for aye.
- I would forget, yet not forget
- Their helpless eloquence. They creep
- Somehow into my heart, and keep
- One bleak, cold corner, jewel set.
- They steal my better self away
- To them, as little birds that day
- Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees.
- So helpless and so wholly still,
- So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise,
- That I did love, despite my will.
- One little maid of ten—such eyes,
- So large and lovely, so divine!
- Such pouting lips, such pearly cheek!
- Did lift her perfect eyes to mine,
- Until our souls did touch and speak
- Stood by me all that perfect day,
- Yet not one sweet word could she say.
- She turn'd her melancholy eyes
- So constant to my own, that I
- Forgot the going clouds, the sky;
- Found fellowship, took bread and wine:
- And so her little soul and mine
- Stood very near together there.
- And oh, I found her very fair!
- Yet not one soft word could she say :
- What did she think of all that day?