Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night. It was night then, when I awoke to feel That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door, The coffins of my fathers all about. Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back, As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell. With frantic strength I beat upon the grate; It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now! Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which, And down the darkling street I wildly fled, Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon, Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I. I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light And human touch; but still my witless steps Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped, By instinct, knocked, and called. A window oped. A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?" "'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone Change into horror, and he prayed aloud And called upon the saints, the while I urged, "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in! I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!" Then with a crash, the window was shut fast: And, though I cried and beat upon the door And wailed aloud, no other answer came. Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove Down the hard distance toward my father's house. "They will have pity and will let me in," I thought. "They loved me and will let me in." Cowards! At the high window overhead They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed. "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in! I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!" "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire. My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax To St. Eustachio, would he but remove This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust From out the window, and my brother cried, "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!" Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street, Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape Saw never Florence since.