Venice, Poem by Alfred De Musset

In Venice the red,
Not a boat that stirs;
Not a fisherman in the water,
Not a lantern.

Alone, seated on the shore,
The great lion lifts,
On the serene horizon,
Its brazen foot.

Around it, in groups,
Ships and launches,
Like herons
Lying in circles,

Sleep on the steaming water,
And cross in the mist,
In light whirlwinds,
Their flags.

The moon that fades
Covers its passing brow
With a starry cloud
Half-veiled.

Thus, the lady abbess
Of Santa Croce lowers
Her cloak with broad folds
Over her surplice.

And the ancient palaces,
And the solemn porticoes,
And the white staircases.
Of the knights,

And the bridges, and the streets,
And the mournful statues,
And the moving gulf
That trembles in the wind,

Everything is silent, except the guards
With long halberds,
Who watch on the battlements
Of the arsenals.

— Ah! now more than one
Waits, in the moonlight,
For some young dandy,
Ear on the alert.

For the ball being prepared,
More than one adorning herself,
Places before her mirror
The black mask.

On her scented couch,
The swooning Vanina
Still presses her lover,
As she falls asleep;

And Narcisa, the mad one,
At the bottom of her gondola,
Loses herself in a feast
Until morning.

And who, in Italy,
Has not his grain of madness?
Who does not keep for loves
His fairest days?

Let us leave the old clock,
In the palace of the old doge,
To count for him from his nights
The long tediums.

Let us rather count, my beauty,
On your rebellious mouth
So many kisses given…
Or forgiven.

Let us rather count your charms,
Let us count the sweet tears,
That before our eyes have cost
Voluptuousness!

Alfred De Musset

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-venice-alfred-de-musset/