Violins and the naked form Beg a little voice of her, Cascading in the madrigal And lifting with the lissom line. The threads of light now fasten on Her gossamer and golden side, Like silken breeze the fingers rise, Undressing sashes and the sky. The notes like Zephyrs sublimate And reach into the pale-pink clouds, Fragrant with sweet exhalations, With hands like dawn that intertwine. Simmering silver on the water, Apollo plucks the Rio Guerra, From which he draws delighted sighs Like whispers on the lips of war. Canal-gold Venice, and the flower Like footsteps in the chariot hour, Canal-gold Venice, the song above, Where dove-strings wake the sapphire love.
