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Once more, St Mark, thy pigeons meet my gaze,
The Square lies still, in slumbering morning mood:
In soft, cool air I fashion idle lays,
Speeding them skyward like a pigeon's brood:
And then recall my minions
To tie fresh rhymes upon their willing pinions.
My bliss! My bliss!

Calm heavenly roof of azure silkiness,
Guarding with shimmering haze yon house divine!
Thee, house, I love, fear—envy, I'll confess,

And gladly would suck out that soul of thine!
"Should I give back the prize?"
Ask not, great pasture-ground for human eyes!
My bliss! My bliss!

Stern belfry, rising as with lion's leap
Sheer from the soil in easy victory,
That fill'st the Square with peal resounding, deep,
Wert thou in French that Square's "accent aigu"?
Were I for ages set
In earth like thee, I know what silk-meshed net. . . .
My bliss! My bliss!

Hence, music! First let darker shadows come,
And grow, and merge into brown, mellow night!
'Tis early for your pealing, ere the dome
Sparkle in roseate glory, gold-bedight.
While yet 'tis day, there's time
For strolling, lonely muttering, forging rhyme—
My bliss! My bliss!