Encounter

In the morning hour near Santa MargheritaI encountered her. She stoodOn the little bridge, her back to the railing. FingersOn grey stone, lay lightly,Precisely like little leaves. Clenched kneesBeneath the white dress protruding slightly.She was waiting. For whom? At sixteen years of age,Who is it that fills the fantasies of a beautiful English missIn Venice? I do not know—and I am not meantTo find out. It is not out of empty speculationThat I recalled today that girl.She stood there, flooded by the sun,But the pliant borders of her Panama hatBrushed her slightly raised shoulders—and coveredWith a cool shadow her face. A bluishAnd pure gaze poured forth, preciselyLike those refreshing waters that race downThe stony lining of a mountain stream,Singing and swift. . . . That is whenI glimpsed that gaze, inexpressible,Which to us, poets, it is fatedTo see only once and remember eternally.For one moment it appears before usOn this earth, divinely inhabitingAn incidental pair of azure eyes.But in it are those flaming storms,Whirling in it those blue maelstroms,That afterward continued sounding to meIn the shimmering of the sun, of black gondolas,In the winged shadow of the dove and in the redSpout of wine.And, late in the evening, as I was walkingHome, the singing steps of the womenOf Venice whispered to me of this also,And my own steps seemed to me to ring louder,More energetic and lighter. Oh, where,Where, in that moment, did my heart fly to,When in the door lock I turned the heavy key With the ring of springs? And for what reason,Having stepped over the threshold of the cold foyer,I paused so long in the darknessBy the stone cistern? By sense of touchAscending the stairs, I called my trepidationFalling in love. But now I know,That that day I had indeed tasted a strong wine—And still sense on my lipsIts fleeting flavor. And the eternal inebriationArrived afterward.

1918