Preface

I enter, and I see thee in the gloomOf the long aisles, O poet saturnine!And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.The air is filled with some unknown perfume;The congregation of the dead make roomFor thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s groves of pineThe hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.From the confessionals I hear ariseRehearsals of forgotten tragedies,And lamentations from the crypts below;And then a voice celestial that beginsWith the pathetic words, “Although your sinsAs scarlet be,” and ends with “as the snow.”

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,She stands before thee, who so long agoFilled thy young heart with passion and the woeFrom which thy song and all its splendors came;And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,The ice about thy heart melts as the snowOn mountain heights, and in swift overflowComes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;Lethe and Eunoë—the remembered dreamAnd the forgotten sorrow—bring at lastThat perfect pardon which is perfect peace.