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L'esquif aborde et me depose, Jetant son amarre au pilier, Devant

une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier.

How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be

floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city,

seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains.

The mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of

turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The

sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the

opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall

honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through

the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed

eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself:

"Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier."