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.