ROSE-COLOURED AT THE BRIM
Daughter of Venice, fairer than the moon!
From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,
And to the lutes of love that low repine
Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon,
Listening with languor in a dreamful swoon—
On such a night as this thou didst entwine
Thy lily fingers round this glass of wine,—
Didst clasp thy climbing lover—none too soon!
Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room