Yesterday evening I ascended the tower of St. Mark’s: as I had lately seen from its top the lagoons in their glory at flood-time, I wished to see them at low water; for in order to have a correct idea of the place, it is necessary to take in both views. It looks rather strange to see land all around one, where a little before the eye fell upon a mirror of waters. The islands are no longer islands—merely higher and house-crowned spots in one large morass of a grey-greenish colour, and intersected by beautiful canals.
GOETHE.
ON THE LAGOONS
My gondola goes sailing
Over the ruffled brine,
While in the west are paling
The purple and carmine.
The light yet burns and blazes
With richest, rosiest hue
Where red San Giorgio raises