O therefore, while the moon intense Holds yonder dreaming sea suspense, And round the shadowy coasts Gather the wistful ghosts,
Let us sit quiet all the night, And wonder, wonder on the light Worn by those spirits fair Whom Love has not left bare.
Even as theirs, the chance was mine To meet and mate beneath Love's sign, To feel in soul and sense The solemn influence
Which, breathed upon a man or maid, Maketh forever unafraid, Though life with death unite That spirit to affright,--
Which lifts the changèd heart high up, As the priest lifts the changèd cup, Boldens the feet to pace Before God's proving face.
O just a thought beyond the blue The wings of the dove yearned down and through! Even now I hear and hear How near they were, how near!
I murmur not. Rightly disgraced, The weak hand stretched abroad in haste For gifts barely allowed The tacit, strong, and proud.
But therefore was I so intent To watch where Dante onward went With the Roman spirit pure And the grave troubadour,
Because my mind was busy then With the loves that wait those gentle men: Cunizza one; and one Bice, above the sun;
And for the other, more and less Than woman's near-felt tenderness, A million voices dim Praising him, praising him.
The waves that wash this mountain's base Were crimson in the sun's low rays, When, singing high and fast, An angel downward passed,
To bid some patient soul arise And make it fair for Paradise; And upward, so attended, That soul its journey wended;
Yet you, who in these lower rings Wait for the coming of such wings, Turned not your eyes to view Whether they came for you,
But watched, but watched great Virgil stayed Greeting Sordello's couchant shade, Which to salute him rose Like lion from its pose;
While humbly by those lords of song Stood he whose living limbs are strong To mount where Mary's bliss Is shed on Beatrice.
On him your gaze was fastened, more Than on those great names Mantua bore; Your eyes hold the distress Still, of that wistfulness.
Yea, fit he seemed much love to rouse! His pilgrim lips and iron brows Grew like a woman's, dim, While you held speech with him;
And troubled came his mortal breath The while I told him of my death; His looks were changed and wan When Virgil led him on.