To the dead cities? Is thy ministry
Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought?
Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth
Of all existence;—ask the poet’s heart:
The Book has no dead tome for him,—for him
Within St. Mark’s emblazoned porticoes
Thy old nobility are walking still;
The lowliest gondola upon thy waters
Is worth to him thy decorated galley;
He never looks upon the Adrian sea