The island city sleeps. The twilight rideth
Gold-shod above San Marco's treasure-plunder;
As if it would enjoy this golden wonder,
A sunbeam stealeth in and softly glideth
Along Christ's head and trembleth there and strideth
To earth where columns cut the light asunder;
It glideth, sent of God, the choir, where, under
The dome, the glory of the ages bideth.
High in an attic room this decoration
In splendor wakens, where a man, deft-handed,
Sets tiny bits of bright illumination--
To shield his fading sight, his white locks banded
With a green shade.--What profits lamentation?
The work's eternal--God hath so commanded!
