A Dialogue In Purgatory

        Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte:
        Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura;
        Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."

        Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,
        "Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;
        Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.
        Salsi colui che inannellata pria
        Disposata m' avea colla sua gemma."

                    PURGATORIO, CANTO V.


        I

        BUONCONTE

        Sister, the sun has ceased to shine;
        By companies of twain and trine
        Stars gather; from the sea
        The moon comes momently.

        On all the roads that ring our hill
        The sighing and the hymns are still:
        It is our time to gain
        Strength for to-morrow's pain.

        Yet still your eyes are wholly bent
        Upon the way that Virgil went,
        Following Sordello's sign,
        With the dark Florentine.

        Night now has barred their upward track:
        There where the mountain-side folds back
        And in the Vale of Flowers
        The Princes count their hours

        Those three friends sit in the clear starlight
        With the green-clad angels left and right,--
        Soul made by wakeful soul
        More earnest for the goal.

        So let us, sister, though our place
        Is barren of that Valley's grace,
        Sit hand in hand, till we
        Seem rich as those friends be.


        II

        LA PIA

        Brother, 't were sweet your hand to feel
        In mine; it would a little heal
        The shame that makes me poor,
        And dumb at the heart's core.

        But where our spirits felt Love's dearth,
        Down on the green and pleasant earth,
        Remains the fleshly shell,
        Love's garment tangible.

        So now our hands have naught to say:
        Heart unto heart some other way
        Must utter forth its pain,
        Must glee or comfort gain.

        Ah, no! For souls like you and me
        Some comfort waits, but never glee:
        Not yours the young men's singing
        In Heaven, at the bride-bringing;

        Not mine, beside God's living waters,
        Dance of the marriageable daughters,
        The laughter and the ease
        Beneath His summer trees.


        III

        BUONCONTE

        In fair Arezzo's halls and bowers
        My Giovanna speeds her hours
        Delicately, nor cares
        To shorten by her prayers

        My days upon this mount of ruth:
        If those who come from earth speak sooth,
        Though still I call and call,
        She does not heed at all.

        And if aright your words I read
        At Dante's passing, he you wed
        Dipped from the drains of Hell
        The marriage hydromel.

        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.


        IV

        LA PIA

        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.


        V

        BUONCONTE

        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.


        VI

        LA PIA

        E'er since Casella came this morn,
        Newly o'er yonder ocean borne,
        Bound upward for the choir
        Who purge themselves in fire,

        And from that meinie he was of
        Stayed backward at my cry of love,
        To speak awhile with me
        Of life and Tuscany,

        And, parting, told us how e'er day
        Was done, Dante would come this way,
        With mortal feet, to find
        His sweetheart, sky-enshrined,--

        E'er since Casella spoke such news
        My heart has lain in a golden muse,
        Picturing him and her,
        What starry ones they were.

        And now the moon sheds its compassion
        O'er the hushed mount, I try to fashion
        The manner of their meeting,
        Their few first words of greeting.

        O well for them, with claspèd hands,
        Unshamed amid the heavenly bands!
        They hear no pitying pair
        Of old-time lovers there

        Look down and say in an undertone,
        "This latest-come, who comes alone,
        Was still alone on earth,
        And lonely from his birth."

        Nor feel a sudden whisper mar
        God's weather, "Dost thou see the scar
        That spirit hideth so?
        Who dealt her such a blow

        "That God can hardly wipe it out?"
        And answer, "She gave love, no doubt,
        To one who saw not fit
        To set much store by it."