Fiammetta

In dream I passed the Gate that bears in black, “Here lies dead Hope.” The ineffable gold sky I saw between the pillars, looking back, And one young cloud, that slowly wandered by As though it wondered. Downward, all was dark, And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry.

Anon, although alone, I whispered, “Hark! What lifeless laughter, crackling thorny-thin?” Then grew to sight what first I failed to mark When from the accustomed light I entered in,-- A group that pleasured by that barren wall As Hell some delicate-blossomed close had been: One, gesturing, spake; the rest attended all, “Declare, ye circled shades, your home on earth! Declare the names your kindred used to call!” I cried, much marvelling at their mirthless mirth. A woman wavered to the space half lit By that lost sky: “In Florence had we birth; That company thou seest, who chose to sit Ten sunny days, a fountain’s flight beside, Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit, What time by Arno many cursing died. Yes, Fiammetta am I. Thou little flame, (Thus the grave Angel, to this Gate my guide,) With what vain flickering hast thou proved thy name! Hast given to no chilled spirit aught of cheer; Shalt now be fed and kept alight with shame, And flicker evermore.”

Then did appear Her set smile’s irony, and I discerned Through those her long dark languid eyes, right clear How far below her soul forever burned. Her sleeves of scarlet hung in many a shred; Her silver chains were all to tarnish turned, And crisped were the laurels on her head. “Alas! why camest thou to this place of pain,-- Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why?” I said, “Since many souls that bore the self-same stain Tread the last ledge of Purgatory mount, And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain, Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount. Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings; Why then are these thus held to hard account?”

“Not such, O questioner, was the sin that brings Us hither; but on earth so weak a part We chose, that now no part in heavenly things Is granted us, nor yet will Hell’s deep heart Receive us, but in this dim borderland We dwell, and follow here our hollow art Of weaving tales, and are in semblance gay, Moved by a might we never may withstand. To our own dear delights we turned away; Forgot the city full of tears, forgot The tolling bells, abandoned even to pray; But couched in some delectable safe spot Saw breezy olives whiten like the sea, And babbled, fools, of Love, and knew him not, Who else had set us from the grim Gate free, Being giant-strong to save the souls of men. But Hate came to us, richly masked, and we Esteemed him Love; and now among us ten Sits very Hate. The life we prized is ours For aye! Yet not so far, I deem, this den From sound of suffering as our fields of flowers.” With that weird smile, she turned as if to go. Loud groaned the lurid City, the sullen fen Of Styx, and all that grief that lies below. “Farewell,” I sighed, “Fiammetta!” But she, “Not so! What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!”