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.