The Death Of Laura - From Il Trionfo Della Morte, Libro I Poem by Nigel Stuart

Then weeping, yoked with fear, was laid aside,
As on her beauteous face, each gazed intent,
Discov’ring, through despair, a strength to bide;

Not like a flame that by some force is spent
But more as one that does itself consume,
She passed in peace, her soul at rest, content.

Like to a light of soft and clearest bloom,
Whose reservoir is drained by stages slow,
She held to her douce path e’en to her doom.

Not pale, but more white than the shrouding snow,
Whose feather flakes, sans wind, cloak fairest hill,
She sank to rest - as one whose strength draws low;

As if sweet sleep her lovely eyes did fill,
Her soul departed from her form’s embrace –
And this do foolish folk but ‘death’ call still:
Yet even death seemed fair in her fair face.

(From the Italian, trans. Nigel Stuart. In Memoriam - Jean Mace)