Dante.
THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when firstTo thy sad eyne the sight of Love appearsWith blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling yearsName thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirstIs never sated, nor whose fever less.At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;Savage to spur thy City on toward rightThou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are painTo mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!
THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when firstTo thy sad eyne the sight of Love appearsWith blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling yearsName thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirstIs never sated, nor whose fever less.At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;Savage to spur thy City on toward rightThou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are painTo mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!
THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when firstTo thy sad eyne the sight of Love appearsWith blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling yearsName thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirstIs never sated, nor whose fever less.At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;Savage to spur thy City on toward rightThou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.
THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first
THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first
To thy sad eyne the sight of Love appears
With blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling years
Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirst
Is never sated, nor whose fever less.
At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;
Savage to spur thy City on toward right
Thou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.
There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are painTo mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!
There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are pain
To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,
Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;
And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,
Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,
Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!