If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn. 
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; 540
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry;
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made.  He said:  ’Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, 545
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’

If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice,—­for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea; 550
And then, the town is silent—­one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair 555
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regrets for the green country.  I might sit
In Maddalo’s great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night 560
And make me know myself, and the firelight
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay: 
But I had friends in London too:  the chief
Attraction here, was that I sought relief 565
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me—­’twas perhaps an idle thought—­
But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart 570
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate: 
In friendships I had been most fortunate—­ 575
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds or solitude
And leave no trace—­but what I now designed 580
Made for long years impression on my mind. 
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice. 
After many years
And many changes I returned; the name
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; 585
But Maddalo was travelling far away
Among the mountains of Armenia. 
His dog was dead.  His child had now become
A woman; such as it has been my doom
To meet with few,—­a wonder of this earth, 590
Where there is little of transcendent worth,
Like one of Shakespeare’s women:  kindly she,
And, with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father’s friend; and when I asked
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked,