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Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil
nisi divinum stabile
est; caetera fumus--the
gondola stopped, the old
palace was there, how
charming its grey and pink--
goats and monkeys,
with such hair too!--so the
countess passed on
until she came through the
little park, where
Niobe presented her with a
cabinet, and so
departed.
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine
arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the
passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left
him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under
the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With
even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water
all the day.
But this or such was
Bleistein's way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And
elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite
Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares
from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of
Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time
Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath
the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in
furs. The boatman smiles,
Princess Volupine
extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To
climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains
Sir Ferdinand
Klein. Who clipped the lion's
wings
And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time's ruins, and the
seven laws.
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