The Lost Gioconda

The world is poorer, Italy's fair child,Lacking the faceThat for so long its heart beguiled;Nor hopeth to replaceWith all its riches multiplied,Thee, eloquent, alone, art-glorified!

But somewhere, Mona Lisa! quietly,With folded hands,And in thine eye's soft mockeryThe look that understands,Thou wearest, lost to us the while,Thine own inscrutable, unaging smile!