Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells,
Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars;
The only sound when whispering waters glide
In on the bosom of a sluggish tide.
Then turn again into her solitudes,—
Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke,—
Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods,
Let memory fall upon you like a cloak:
Venice will rise around you as of old,
Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold.