I only gave the gondolier his name,
And said, "You know him?" "Yes."
"Then row me quick to where he is."
He bowed and on he went,
And as we swept along, I leaned me out
And dragged my burning fingers in the wave,
My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting,
What he'd say and think,
How I should hang upon his neck and say:
"I could not longer live without you, dear."
At last we paused. The gondolier said,
"This is the palace." I was struck aghast.
It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed
And trickled down into the black canal.
"Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake.
Why are these lights? This palace is not his.
He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he,
"I fancied the signora wished to see
The marriage festa--and all Venice knows
The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?"
I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride,
Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart,
From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark
Shot dead, at these few words.
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