Genoa and the Mediterranean

 O epic-famed, god-haunted Central Sea, 
Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee 
When from Torino's track I saw thy face first flash on me.
 

And multimarbled Genova the Proud, 
Gleam all unconscious how, wide-lipped, up-browed, 
I first beheld thee clad--not as the Beauty but the Dowd.
 

Out from a deep-delved way my vision lit 
On housebacks pink, green, ochreous--where a slit 
Shoreward 'twixt row and row revealed the classic blue through it.
 

And thereacross waved fishwives' high-hung smocks, 
Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned underfrocks; 
Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O Queen, that frippery mocks: 

Whereat I grieve, Superba! .
 .
 .
 Afterhours 
Within Palazzo Doria's orange bowers 
Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers.
 

But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see, 
Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more be 
Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee.

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