But list! In yon balcōny do I hear
The voice of maid, the twang of mandoline!
There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back,
There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone,
From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped,
Comes rippling a Venetian barcarolle!
The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline,
The mild narcotic of the cigarette,
The lulling motion of my lazy craft,
The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar—