And when that age was done and the transfusion Of all my self through her and she through me, I did perceive that she enthroned two things: Verona, and a maid I knew on earth; And dulled some while from dream, and then become That lower thing, deductive intellect, I saw How all things are but symbols of all things,[10] And each of many, do we know But the equation governing. And in my rapture at this vision's scope I saw no end or bourn to what things mean, So praised Pythagoras and once more raised By this said rapture to the house of Dream, Beheld Fenicè as a lotus-flower Drift through the purple of the wedded sea And grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she, And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness," And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates," And guessed her evil and her good thereby. And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight, Passed with a laugh that was all mystery, And when I turned to her She reached me one clear chalice of white wine, Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hung Adown her shoulders, and were bound Right cunningly about her elfish brows; So hale a draught, the life of every grape Lurked without ferment in the amber cloud. And memory, this wine was, of all good. And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito, Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa, Cornelia of Colombo of far sight, That, man and seer in one, had well been twain, And each a glory to his hills and sea; And past her a great band Bright garlanded or rich with purple skeins, And crimson mantles and queynt fineries That tarnished held but so the more Of dim allurement in their half-shown folds: So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks, Then rose some opaque cloud, Whose name I have not yet discerned, And music as I heard it one clear night Within our earthly night's own mirroring, _Cioè_,--San Pietro by Adige,[11] Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars, And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy forms Made and sang God, within the far-off choir. And in a clear space high behind Them and the tabernacle of that place, Two tapers shew the master of the keys As some white power pouring forth itself. And all the church rang low and murmured Thus in my dream of forms the music swayed. And I was lost in it and only woke When something like a mass bell rang, and then That white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice. Me bore to earth again, but some strange peace I had not known so well before this swevyn Clung round my head and made me hate earth less. [Footnote 11: For notes on this poem see end of volume--A Vision of Italy.] In the Old Age of the Soul