At this time of day One could hear the caulking irons sound Against the hulls in the dockyard. Tar smoke rose between trees And large oily patches floated on the water, Undulating unevenly In the purple sunlight Like the surfaces of Florentine bronze. At this time of day Sounds carried clearly Through hot silences of fading daylight. The weedy fields lay drowned In odors of creosote and salt. Richer than double-colored taffeta, Oil floated in the harbor, Amoeboid, iridescent, limp. It called to mind the slender limbs Of Donatello's "David." It was lovely and she was in love. They had taken a covered boat to one of the islands. The city sounds were faint in the distance: Rattling of carriages, tumult of voices, Yelping of dogs on the decks of barges. At this time of day, Sunlight empurpled the world. The poplars darkened in ranks Like imperial servants. Water lapped and lisped In its native and quiet tongue. Oakum was in the air and the scent of grasses. There would be fried smelts and cherries and cream. Nothing designed by Italian artisans Would match this evening's perfection. The puddled oil was a miracle of colors.