“O mystic Lady; Thou in whom alone
Our human race surpasses all that stand
In Paradise the nearest round the throne!
So eagerly I wait for thy command
That to obey were slow though ready done.”
How oft I read. How agonized the turning,
In those my earlier days of loss and pain,—
Of eyes to space and night as though by yearning —
Some wall might yield and I behold again
A certain angel, fled beyond discerning;
In vain I chafed and sought — alas, in vain,
From spurring though my heart's dark world returned
To Dante's page, those wearied thoughts of mine;
Again I read, again my longing burned.—
A voice melodious spake in every line,
But from sad pleasure sorrow fresh I learned:
Strange was the music of the Florentine.