great an aspect of humility that she seemed to say: 'I have gone to behold the beginning of peace.' And then I seemed to have returned to my own room, and there I looked toward heaven and began to cry out in tears: 'O, soul most beautiful, how blessed is he who beholds thee.' And as I said these words with sobs and tears, and called on death to come to me, a young and gentle lady who was at my bedside, thinking that my tears and cries were for grief on account of my infirmity began also to weep in great fear. Whereupon other ladies who were in the room, noticed that I wept, and leading away from my bedside her who was joined to me by close ties of blood,[5] they came to me to wake me from my dream, and saying: 'Weep no more,' and again: 'Be not so discomforted.' And as they thus spoke, my strong fancy ceased, and just as I was about to say: 'O, Beatrice, blessed art thou,' and I had already said, 'O, Beatrice--' giving a start I opened my eyes and saw that I had been dreaming." The presentiment of Dante in the above exquisite passage came true. Beatrice, too fair and good for earth, was called by God to Himself. One day the poet sat down to write a poem in praise of her and had finished one stanza when the news came that Beatrice was dead. At first he seemed too benumbed even for tears, and after a quotation from Jeremiah-- "How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! How is she become a widow, she that was great among the nations!"-- at the beginning of the next paragraph, he gives a fantastic discussion of the symbolical figure nine and its connection with the life and death of Beatrice. Then the tears began to flow, and unutterable sadness took possession of his heart. A whole year after he tells us how one day he sat thinking of her and drawing the picture of an angel, a picture, alas! which was never finished, as he was interrupted by visitors.[6] At another time he tells how one day he saw a number of pilgrims passing through Florence on their way to Rome, and to them he addressed one of his most beautiful sonnets: Oh, pilgrims who move on with steps so slow, Musing perchance of friends now far away; So distant is your native land, oh say! As by your actions ye do seem to show? For lo! you weep and mourn not when you go, Through these our city streets, so sad to-day; Nor unto us your meed of pity pay, Bowed as we are 'neath heavy weight of woe. If while I speak you will but wait and hear,-- Surely,--my heart in sighing whispers me,-- That then you shall go on with sorrow deep. Florence has lost its Beatrice dear; And words that tell what she was wont to be, Are potent to make all that hear them weep.