ASPETTO REALE

That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted

Thou wrotest, “Come, for I have lookt on death.”

Piteous I held my indeterminate breath

And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted

Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted

Thy radiant immortality underneath

Such stress of dark; but then, as one that saith,

“I know Love liveth,” sat on by death untainted.

O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry

To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears!

O youth, O pride, set too remote and high

For touch of solace that gives grace to men!

Thy life must be our death, thy hopes our fears:

We weep, thou lookest strangely — we know thee then!