Mighty Venice now has fallen low, <br />One hears no songs, no sound of festive balls; <br />On steps of marble and through gateways falls <br />The pallid moon's unearthly silver glow. <br /> <br />Okeanos there his sorrow calls... <br />In him alone eternal youth does blow, <br />Yet on his bride would he his breath bestow, <br />The waves break plaintively against the walls. <br /> <br />The town is silent as a burial ground; <br />Only the priests of bygone days remain, <br />Saint Mark tolls sinister the midnight round; <br /> <br />In sombre tones his slow sibylline strain <br />He nightly speaks with smooth and cadenced sound; <br />'The dead, my child, no more come back again'. <br /> <br />(Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu)<br /><br />Mihai Eminescu<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vi-7/
