The eyes that weep for pity of the heart Have wept so long that their grief languisheth, And they have no more tears to weep withal: And now if I would ease me of a part Of what, little by little, leads to death, It must be done by speech, or not at all, And because often, thinking I recall How it was pleasant ere she went afar, To talk of her with you, kind damozels, I talk with no one else, But only with such hearts as women's are. And I will say,--still sobbing as speech fails,-- That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly, And hath left Love below, to mourn with me. III. "Dante once prepared to paint an angel." . . . . . . . "You and I would rather see that angel Painted by the tenderness of Dante,-- Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno." --Browning's "One Word More". On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did; also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation and said: "Another was with me." Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels; in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith "That Lady": That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul; whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of God, Among the poor in heart where Mary is. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bowed, Unto the sighs which are its weary load, Saying, "Go forth." And they went forth, I wis Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached; With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus: "O noble intellect! It is a year to-day that thou art gone." IV. The Close of the Vita Nuova. Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above; A new perception born of grieving Love Guideth it upward the untrodden ways. When it hath reached unto the end and stays, It sees a lady round whom splendors move In homage; till, by the great light thereof Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze. It sees her such, that when it tells me this Which it hath seen, I understand it not; It hath a speech so subtile and so fine And yet I know its voice within my thought Often remembereth me of Beatrice: So that I understand it, ladies mine.