In Venice the red,
Never a boat thats sped,
No fisher on the mere,
No lantern near.
Seated alone on shore,
The Lion grand lifts
Over Horizon without flaw,
His bronzed paw.
Around him,
Ranged in groups,
Great vessels and shallops,
Like herons all adoze
In silent rows,
On smoking waves reclined
And oer the mist entwined,
Their standards, hovering
In airy ring.
The moon that groweth pale,
Her fading brow doth veil,
A cloud all starry lined
Half hidden behind.
Alfred de Musset (1710-1857)
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