Venetian Beads

My string of blue Venetian beads

On Sundays I may wear,

And it is good to suck each one

All through the long, long prayer.

They must be magic beads, because

I shut my eyes and soon

I seem to be in Venice, too,

Upon a blue lagoon,

With boats instead of trolley cars,

And bending gondoliers

To give strange cries by palace walls

All damply green with years;

Past sunny balconies I glide

Where lovely ladies sit,

Beneath a bridge that turns to black

The waters under it.

What should I ever do in church

Without Venetian beads

To take my mind away from all

Those texts the parson reads!