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 changd heart high up,             As the priest lifts the changd 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 claspd 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."