HIS Soul fared forth (as from the deep home-grove
The father-songster plies the hour-long quest),
To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest;
Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.
(Div. Com. Purg. xxx.)
OF Florence and of Beatrice
Servant and singer from of old,
THOU fill'st from the winged chalice of the soul
Thy lamp, O Memory, fire-winged to its goal.
Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone
Lost the first, but the second won.
Love,through your spirit and mine what summer eve
Now glows with glory of all things possess'd,
Since this day's sun of rapture filled the west
TILL dawn the wind drove round me. It is past
And still, and leaves the air to lisp of bird,
And to the quiet that is almost heard
TO-NIGHT this sunset spreads two golden wings
Cleaving the western sky;
Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings
One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
Saying: “Behold, this minstrel is unknown;
What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon's face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space