Beatrice

The shining face Smiled straight into the skies; A rosy glow was on her archéd neck;

Her radiant brow, Lofty, serene, and fair, And her glance like a rose new-blown,

And the fresh smile Of pure youth, Awakened in the heart new ecstasies:

But awe-inspiring And with fear entrancing Was her presence.

Floating on the wind In the morning air Was her sky-blue mantle, her white veil.

Like Our Lady from heaven She passed before me, An angel in seeming and yet all so ardent.

My mind stopped thinking But to look at her, And the soul was at rest—but for sighing.

Then said I: O how or when Did earth deserve That such a mark of love be given her?

What reckless ancestors Gave thee to the world? What age ever bore so fair a thing as thou?

What serener star Produced thy form? What love divine evolved thee from its light?

Easily the ways of man Following the blessed guidance Of thee, Beatrice, were all made new!

—“Not a woman, but the Idea Am I, which heaven did offer For man to study when seeking things on high.

“When hearts, not wholly cooled Of their potential fires, Fought hard with life severe, and with the truth,

“And to the valiant thinking And courageous hope Faith and true love lent arms of constancy,—

“Then, from my airy seat descending, Among these gallant souls I came, Kindled and kept alive their ardent zeal;

“And, faithful to my champions, Clasped in their mighty embrace, I made them worship Death—yea, and Defeat,

“While, traced by dreamy souls In verse and colours, I wandered through the laurels on Arno's banks.

“In vain you look for me 'Mong your poor household gods— No Bice Portinari—I am the Idea!”

JUVENILIA.