Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove Down the hard distance towards 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. The people call That street through which I walked and wrung my hands "Street of the Dead One," even to this day. The sleeping houses stood in midnight black, And not a soul was in the streets but I. At last I saw a flickering point of light High overhead, in a dim window set. I had lain down to die; but at the sight I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then It was Antonio's door by which I lay. A window opened, and a voice called out: "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought, "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment more The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. "O ghost or angel of my buried love, I know not, care not which, be welcome here! Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!" I heard him say, and then I heard no more. It was high noontide when I woke again, To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,-- My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet Over the pavement to Antonio's door. Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs. Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in, And to the court we swept--I in my shroud-- To try the cause. This was the verdict given: "A woman who has been to burial borne, Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; Who at her husband's door has stood and plead For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; Who from her father's house is urged and chased, Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. The Court pronounces the defendant--dead! She can resume her former ties at will, Or may renounce them, if such be her will. She is no more a daughter, or a spouse, Unless she choose, and is set free to form New ties, if so she choose."