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?”