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At night on the radiant Rialto, By the stars in their houses of glass, I strolled with my soul in my pocket And prayed that my night might not pass; I have seen 'neath the high heels of Beauty My heart and my soul and my shame; That form! O, how often it lured me, And how often I lost in the game!

And how often I walked in the shadow Of a Laila a mile and a mile! But the rapture and bliss of a vision Would end in a great gush of bile. To the hints that her garment would whisper I have listened but I would not dare; I have seen every one of my fancies Retreat in the dark of her hair.

I have wished that each building around us Was a cedar, a poplar, a pine; That the men and the women were statues, And the rain that was falling was wine; That the lights were ethereal flowers; That the cars were the nooks in the wood,–

"O, enough!" she exclaimed as she kissed me, "This attic and couch are as good."