Can he take in the glory of this hour,
And call it all the decking of a bier?
No, surely as on that Titanic tower
The Guardian Angel stands in æther clear,
With the moon’s silver tempering his gold wing,
So Venice lives, as lives no other thing:
That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange;
That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye
Rests as on gems; those arches, whose high range
Gives its rich-broidered border to the sky;