XXVIII

Out of the dust the queen of roses springs;

The brackish depths of the blown waters bear

Blossoms of foam; the common mist and air

Weave Vesper's holy, pity-laden wings.

So from sad, mortal, and unhallowed things

Bud stars that in their crowns the angels wear;

And worship of the infinitely fair

Flows from thine eyes, as wise Petrarca sings:

“Hence comes the understanding of love's scope,

That, seeking thee, to perfect good aspires,

Accounting little what all flesh desires;

And hence the spirit's happy pinions ope

In flight impetuous to the heaven's choirs:

Wherefore I walk already proud in hope.”