Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS, ON VENICE: 3. LIDO, by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I went to greet the full may-moon Last Line: Than lido and its graves. Alternate Author Name(s): Houghton, 1st Baron; Houghton, Lord Subject(s): Lido (island), Italy; Travel; Journeys; Trips | ||||||||
I WENT to greet the full May-moon On that long narrow shoal Which lies between the still Lagoon And the open Ocean's roll. How pleasant was that grassy shore, When one for months had been Shut up in streets, -- to feel once more One's foot-fall on the green! There are thick trees too in that place; But straight from sea to sea, Over a rough uncultured space, The path goes drearily. I passed along, with many a bound, To hail the fresh free wave; But, pausing, wonderingly found I was treading on a grave. Then, at one careless look, I saw That, for some distance round, Tomb-stones, without design or law, Were scattered on the ground: Of pirates or of mariners I deemed that these might be The fitly-chosen sepulchres, Encircled by the sea. But there were words inscribed on all, I' the tongue of a far land, And marks of things symbolical, I could not understand. They are the graves of that sad race, Who, from their Syrian home, For ages, without resting-place, Are doomed in woe to roam; Who, in the days of sternest faith, Glutted the sword and flame, As if a taint of moral death Were in their very name: And even under laws most mild, All shame was deemed their due, And the nurse told the Christian child To shun the cursed Jew. Thus all their gold's insidious grace Availed not here to gain For their last sleep, a seemlier place Than this bleak-featured plain. Apart, severely separate, On the verge of the outer sea, Their home of Death is desolate As their Life's home could be. The common sand-path had defaced And pressed down many a stone; Others can be but faintly traced I' the rank grass o'er them grown. I thought of Shylock, -- the fierce heart Whose wrongs and injuries old Temper, in Shakspeare's world of Art, His lusts of blood and gold; Perchance that form of broken pride Here at my feet once lay, -- But lay alone, -- for at his side There was no Jessica! Fondly I love each island-shore, Embraced by Adrian waves; But none has Memory cherished more Than Lido and its graves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES |
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