From Nice to Oneglia

An astonishing view, she regards it with eyes
All astare at its glitter and space. Where the sea,
Creeping up to the cliffs, leaves a foot or two free,

Runs the path she is following with such gay surprise.

A lady, a Countess, whose long flowing habit
Proclaims her as English by every known rule,
Perched up on a deft little mouse-coloured mule

Stepping daintily, softly, as any jack-rabbit.

What a heavenly journey, this coming by land
From Nice to Oneglia, outriding her train!

She is vastly amused -- why, even the sand...

The mule shies, she pulls him up sharply and sees,

Just over the edge of her tightly held rein,
A skull, water-washed, grimly bright in the breeze.

The guide, coming up, shrugs his shoulders with shady

Indifference, "It's only the pirates, my Lady."