Genoa and the Mediterranean
O epic-famed, god-haunted Central Sea,Heave careless of the deep wrong done to theeWhen 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 litOn housebacks pink, green, ochreous—where a slitShoreward ’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! . . . AfterhoursWithin Palazzo Doria’s orange bowersWent far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers.
But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see,Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more beWhere lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee.
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