 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
134
DANTE AND BEATRICE.
FIRST VERSION.
I
He circled round his Queen—as round a flowerA hawk moth dances on a summer eve,
And having sipped its sweets is loth to leave
And seek some other food-supplying bower,
So Dante, after fire or icy shower
Of agony endurèd, ceased to grieve
For a season, and each circle would achieve
A nearer stand-point, a more passionate power;
And she stood in the centre of the maze,
The purgatory of his tortured heart,
And ever and anon the clouds would part
And Beatrice was clear before his gaze,
And eyes of adoration he might raise,
And clean forget that fires and frost-bites smart;
135
II
Each circle he was closer—then he turnedAside another journey to pursue,
To brush with weary footstep distant dew;
But that he might be certain that not spurned
In anywise was he, that pity yearned
Towards him, with some flower she would endue
His lean worn fingers, with a hare-bell blue,
Or rose, or hyacinth, whose beauty burned
Till the next meeting, nourishing his soul;
But when the circles slackened to a point,
And gone was every barrier and joint
Of walls of separation, with the whole
Of her sweet self she waited at the goal,
Not now with any blossom to anoint.
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