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YET AM I NOT FOR PITY.
I.
For me there are no cities, no proud halls,
No storied paintings—nor the chiseled snow
Of statues; never have I seen the glow
Of sunset die upon the deathless walls
Of the pure Parthenon; no soft light falls
For me in dim cathedrals, where the low,
Still seas of supplication ebb and flow;
No dream of Rome my longing soul enthralls.
But oh, to see in all her virgin white
Fair Venice rising from the purple sea!
Oh, but to feel one golden evening pale
On that famed island from whose lonely height
Dark Sappho sank in burning ecstacy!
But once—but once—to hear the nightingale!
