Y gondolier lazily makes his way,

Threading along, humming a song,

While glorious tints of a dying day

Fill me with rapture; and earth, sky, and sea,

In their aureole robes, are a mystery

Hidden from none, priceless, but free!

The swish of the oar in the dark, quiet stream,

Rhythmical, clear, soothing to hear,

Scatters the mist as a little moonbeam

Kisses the lips that are mine by right,

And caresses the form with its mellow light

For which I am yearning to-night.

This world is a place full of trouble and pain,

None of us know, why this is so;

In fancy, at least, when you suffer again,

Ride in my gondola, dismiss all care,

Hear the soft music that floats through the air,

At twilight, in Venice, so fair.