Poems (Scudder)/Via Della Madonetta
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VIA DELLA MADONETTA
The dearest street in Venice lies
Not to be found by careless eyes,
A ribbon of the seaweed's green
It turns and twists the walls between
So narrow that one's elbow may
The tinted plaster rub away,
And if the swarthy gondolier
Another plashing oar should hear
He cries a warning, wailful, sweet,
Lest the opposing prows should meet.
See, there's a house all rosy white
Around whose foot the tangled light
And shadow whirling silently
Are delicate as when we see
The princess of a fairy dream
Dipping her soft limbs in the stream:
But yonder house of fawn and gold
Is some proud courtesan of old,
Tullia of Aragon arrayed
In gown of amber-hued brocade,
Nor doth she fear her shoon to wet
With diamonds and topaz set,
A princely lover's gift, nor wear
The yellow veil to hide her hair.
And here's a house whose vivid blue
Shades to a luscious violet hue,
And this I like the best of all,
For in a niche against the wall
The Madonetta's self doth stand,
And scarcely taller than my hand,
Of plaster shapen clumsily
And crudely painted it may be,
But still, I love her oval face,
Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace
Of drooping head and arm too frail
To hold that heavy baby. Pale
The cheek that once was painted pink,
Faded the crimson mouth. I think
So wistful sweet she is and small
That I would dare to whisper all
My littlest sins to her, for she
Would never frown and frighten me.
She is not proud and stiff and great
Like the Madonna was who sate
Above the altar looking down
In cloth of gold and jewelled crown.
I think of her each windy night,
How by the smoking candles' light
She watches with her patient eyes
Such mimic storms as may arise
Within the wee canal. Each day
Do I salute her on my way
Along the via, and I bring
For her some dainty offering
Two yellow marigolds as bright
As are the gilded roses dight
Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet,
A tiny sprig of mignonette.
Not to be found by careless eyes,
A ribbon of the seaweed's green
It turns and twists the walls between
So narrow that one's elbow may
The tinted plaster rub away,
And if the swarthy gondolier
Another plashing oar should hear
He cries a warning, wailful, sweet,
Lest the opposing prows should meet.
See, there's a house all rosy white
Around whose foot the tangled light
And shadow whirling silently
Are delicate as when we see
The princess of a fairy dream
Dipping her soft limbs in the stream:
But yonder house of fawn and gold
Is some proud courtesan of old,
Tullia of Aragon arrayed
In gown of amber-hued brocade,
Nor doth she fear her shoon to wet
With diamonds and topaz set,
A princely lover's gift, nor wear
The yellow veil to hide her hair.
And here's a house whose vivid blue
Shades to a luscious violet hue,
And this I like the best of all,
For in a niche against the wall
The Madonetta's self doth stand,
And scarcely taller than my hand,
Of plaster shapen clumsily
And crudely painted it may be,
But still, I love her oval face,
Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace
Of drooping head and arm too frail
To hold that heavy baby. Pale
The cheek that once was painted pink,
Faded the crimson mouth. I think
So wistful sweet she is and small
That I would dare to whisper all
My littlest sins to her, for she
Would never frown and frighten me.
She is not proud and stiff and great
Like the Madonna was who sate
Above the altar looking down
In cloth of gold and jewelled crown.
I think of her each windy night,
How by the smoking candles' light
She watches with her patient eyes
Such mimic storms as may arise
Within the wee canal. Each day
Do I salute her on my way
Along the via, and I bring
For her some dainty offering
Two yellow marigolds as bright
As are the gilded roses dight
Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet,
A tiny sprig of mignonette.