OR, THE ANGEL OF VENICE 
99 
 
There enter MONICA, veiled, in a dancer’s dress, and LUCREZIA, 
also veiled, with a guitar. 
 
ALESSANDRO.  True children of the East, their motion is the 
form 
Of foray and of feast, of dusty devil-storm. 
MORTADELLO.  The Mass, what figures !  Pass the wine !  
Zelina, curl 
Your lissom arm, my lass, around me. 
LORENZO. 
See the girl 
At the first twitterings of the gallant guitar 
Sways like a palm and swings. 
ALESSANDRO. 
Nay, trembles like a star ! 
MONICA.  [Sings to an Oriental dance.]  The moon is on the 
horizon ;  the desert aches 
To turn its face to silent space ;  I see the snakes 
And scorpions make orisons to neighbour Night, 
Their holy hate envenom Fate, envenom Light, 
Envenom all that cringe or call, that start or stir. 
Love’s holocaust is to exhaust who loveth her, 
Exhaust of light, exhaust of might, exhaust of love, 
Until their world of woe uncurled reach out above 
To where the great black snake of Fate is coiled about 
The very spine of God, a vine divine, devout. 
Oh for the blind kiss of the wind, the desert air 
Thrilling the blue and shrilling through my soul’s despair ! 
Oh for the sharp edge of the escarpments of the dunes ! 
Diffract through haze the rigid rays of the dead moons ! 
Saturn of lead, and Mars all red, and Venus blue, 
And purple Jove, lend me your love, as mine to you ! 
All stars, all vast worlds that stream past.  I lust to slake