Matilda Gathering Flowers.

From The Purgatorio Of Dante, Canto 28, Lines 1-51.     And earnest to explore within - around -     The divine wood, whose thick green living woof     Tempered the young day to the sight - I wound     Up the green slope, beneath the forest's roof,     With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain's steep,     And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof     Against the air, that in that stillness deep     And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,     The slow, soft stroke of a continuous...     In which the ... leaves tremblingly were     All bent towards that part where earliest     The sacred hill obscures the morning air.     Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,     But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,     Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,     With perfect joy received the early day,     Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound     Kept a low burden to their roundelay,     Such as from bough to bough gathers around     The pine forest on bleak Chiassi's shore,     When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.     My slow steps had already borne me o'er     Such space within the antique wood, that I     Perceived not where I entered any more, -     When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,     Bending towards the left through grass that grew     Upon its bank, impeded suddenly     My going on. Water of purest hue     On earth, would appear turbid and impure     Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,     Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure     Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms     The rays of moon or sunlight ne'er endure.     I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms     Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating     The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms     Which starred that night, when, even as a thing     That suddenly, for blank astonishment,     Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing, -     A solitary woman! and she went     Singing and gathering flower after flower,     With which her way was painted and besprent.     'Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power     To bear true witness of the heart within,     Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower     Towards this bank. I prithee let me win     This much of thee, to come, that I may hear     Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna's glen,     Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here     And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when     She lost the Spring, and Ceres her, more dear.