O epic-famed, god-haunted Central Sea, <br /> Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee <br />When from Torino's track I saw thy face first flash on me. <br /> <br /> And multimarbled Genova the Proud, <br /> Gleam all unconscious how, wide-lipped, up-browed, <br />I first beheld thee clad--not as the Beauty but the Dowd. <br /> <br /> Out from a deep-delved way my vision lit <br /> On housebacks pink, green, ochreous--where a slit <br />Shoreward 'twixt row and row revealed the classic blue through it. <br /> <br /> And thereacross waved fishwives' high-hung smocks, <br /> Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned underfrocks; <br />Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O Queen, that frippery mocks: <br /> <br /> Whereat I grieve, Superba! . . . Afterhours <br /> Within Palazzo Doria's orange bowers <br />Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers. <br /> <br /> But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see, <br /> Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more be <br />Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/genoa-and-the-mediterranean-march-1887/
