Castelli, O Castelli, she is dead. I found her driving death back with her soul Till I should come. I could not even see Her face.--These useless eyes had spent their power On distant worlds, and lost that last faint look Of love on earth. I am in the dark, Castelli, Utterly and irreparably blind. The Universe which once these outworn eyes Enlarged so far beyond its ancient bounds Is henceforth shrunk into that narrow space Which I myself inhabit. Yet I found Even in the dark, her tears against my face, Her thin soft childish arms around my neck, And her voice whispering ... love, undying love; Asking me, at this last, to tell her true, If we should meet again. Her trust in me Had shaken her faith in what my judges held; And, as I felt her fingers clutch my hand, Like a child drowning, "Tell me the truth," she said, "Before I lose the light of your dear face"-- It seemed so strange that dying she could see me While I had lost her,--"tell me, before I go." "Believe in Love," was all my soul could breathe. I heard no answer. Only I felt her hand Clasp mine and hold it tighter. Then she died, And left me to my darkness. Could I guess At unseen glories, in this deeper night, Make new discoveries of profounder realms, Within the soul? O, could I find Him there, Rise to Him through His harmonies of law And make His will my own! This much, at least, I know already, that--in some strange way-- His law implies His love; for, failing that All grows discordant, and the primal Power Ignobler than His children. So I trust One day to find her, waiting for me still, When all things are made new. I raise this torch Of knowledge. It is one with my right hand, And the dark sap that keeps it burning flows Out of my heart; and yet, for all my faith, It shows me only darkness. Was I wrong? Did I forget the subtler truth of Rome And, in my pride, obscure the world's one light? Did I subordinate to this moving earth Our swiftlier-moving God? O, my Celeste, Once, once at least, you knew far more than I; And she is dead, Castelli, she is dead. VI (_Viviani, many years later, writes to a friend in England_)