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Poem	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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