UPON the terrace where the shadow falls,
Engarlanded by vines with golden grapes,
Marozia, whom a thin gown scantly drapes,
Sits with her cousin dukes and cardinals. A chosen troupe of slaves before her dance,
Daughters of Emirs that adore Mahound;
And poets sing her madrigals, whose sound
Lulls her into a dreamful, amorous trance. And never with rude wing bird of the night
Hath brushed her maiden brow in ominous flight,
And never lover's love for her grew cold. The Pope for her would empty treasure-ships,
And clerks and kings would die with singing lips
For one glance of her broad eyes sown with gold.