This is Venice, you will gather, which is full of precious “stones,”
Tintorettos, picture-postcards, and remains of Doges’ bones.
Not of these am I complaining; they are mostly seen by day,
And they only try your patience in an inoffensive way.
But at night, when over Lido rises Dian (that’s the moon),
And the vicious vaporetti cease to vex the still lagoon;
When the final trovatore, singing something old and cheap,
Hurls his tremolo crescendo full against my beauty sleep;
When I hear the Riva’s loungers in debate beneath my bower
Summing up (about 1.30) certain questions of the hour;