Think of it! The birds sing—the sun shines—
the leaves rustle—the flowers bud and bloom—
children shout—young hearts are happy—the world

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wheels on—and such tragedies are, and always
have been!

I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony,
and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no
more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it
no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide
in your black gondola along the canal, under the
balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights,
listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in
your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.