Rescue me thou, the only real! 100
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart! 
Thanks!  Now, stay ever as thou art!

Still he muses.

I

What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader?  While there’s cast
Paul’s cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet thro’ my back; I reel;
And . . . is it thou I feel?

II

They trail me, these three godless knaves, 110
Past every church that saints and saves,
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido’s wet accursed graves,
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And . . . on thy breast I sink!

She replies, musing.

Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As I do:  thus:  were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this way?  Death’s to fear from flame or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water—­feel! 
Go find the bottom!  Would you stay me?  There! 120
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away:  since you have praised my hair,
’Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.

He speaks.

Row home? must we row home?  Too surely
Know I where its front’s demurely
Over the Giudecca piled;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting,
All’s the set face of a child:  130
But behind it, where’s a trace
Of the staidness and reserve,
And formal lines without a curve,
In the same child’s playing-face? 
No two windows look one way
O’er the small sea-water thread
Below them.  Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead! 
First, out a cloud of curtain blew,
Then a sweet cry, and last came you—­ 140
To catch your lory that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then,
To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds,
And make me happiest of men. 
I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o’er the balcony
To catch him ere he climbed too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach
That quick the round smooth cord of gold,
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 150
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old,
When Rome there was, for coolness’ sake
To let lie curling o’er their bosoms. 
Dear lory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had marked their thief to know again!