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;