The Garden Of Paradise

Raising myself to realms whose splendours cloud Her whom I seek and find not on this earth, There, among those of the third circle’s girth, Marv’lling I met her, lovelier and less proud. She took my hand and said: “Desire speaks loud And true; thou wilt be with me here in mirth Of endless music, me, thy foe, whose birth And dawn of youth found long ere night a shroud. My bliss no mortal brain can understand; For thee alone, and what thou lov’st so much, I wait, my wondrous veil which lies down there.” Why did she fade away and drop my hand? The poignant sweetness of her heavenly touch Had almost loosed my soul on that soft air.