But along the curved shores of the bay at the left of the mountain
stretch out the fair white arms
like unto those of a child who, happy on entering the dance,
throws to the breeze her hair,
laughs, and with generous hand deals out her flowers right and left,
and crowns the chief youth with her garland.
Garda there, far below, lifts up her dusky shoulders
over the liquid mirror,
singing the while a saga of cities ancient and buried,
and their barbaric kings.