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.