O DONNA DI VIRTU!

“O mystic Lady; Thou in whom alone

Our human race surpasses all that stand

In Paradise the nearest round the throne!

So eagerly I wait for thy command

That to obey were slow though ready done.”

How oft I read. How agonized the turning,

In those my earlier days of loss and pain,—

Of eyes to space and night as though by yearning —

Some wall might yield and I behold again

A certain angel, fled beyond discerning;

In vain I chafed and sought — alas, in vain,

From spurring though my heart's dark world returned

To Dante's page, those wearied thoughts of mine;

Again I read, again my longing burned.—

A voice melodious spake in every line,

But from sad pleasure sorrow fresh I learned:

Strange was the music of the Florentine.