No sign of rush or strife is there,
    No war of greed they wage.
The deep cool streets of Genoa
    Are rock-like in their age.
No garish signs of commerce there
    Are flaunting in the sun.
A rag hung from a balcony
    Is by an artist done.

And she was fair in Genoa,
    And she was very kind,
Those pale blind-seeming eyes that seem
    Most beautifully blind.
Oh they are sad in Genoa,
    Those poor soiled singing birds.
I had but three Italian words
    And she three English words.

But love is cheap in Genoa,
    Aye, love and wine are cheap,
And neither leaves an aching head,
    Nor cuts the heart too deep;
Save when the knife goes straight, and then
    There’s little time to grieve—
The only city in the world
    That I was loath to leave.

I’ve said farewell to tinted days
    And glorious starry nights,
I’ve said farewell to Naples with
    Her long straight lines of lights;
But it is not for Naples but
    For Genoa that I grieve,
The only city in the world
    That I was loath to leave.