The Death of Beatrice
To magnify them—yet our praise
How shall it touch thee? Who shall weave
For thee around whose head the rays
Of the sun's splendour burn and cleave
Discordant crowns of earthly days?
How shall it touch thee? Who shall weave
For thee around whose head the rays
Of the sun's splendour burn and cleave
Discordant crowns of earthly days?
One sings indeed, but his voice is
The very voice of sorrow; all
Death's most beloved mysteries
He takes and weaves a coronal
To crown the brows of Beatrice.
The very voice of sorrow; all
Death's most beloved mysteries
He takes and weaves a coronal
To crown the brows of Beatrice.
Slowly he comes now the pale shades
Of evening grow distinct, whilst still
The sun a flaming garland braids
Round the calm forehead of the hill,
And, full of sleep, the long day fades.
Of evening grow distinct, whilst still
The sun a flaming garland braids
Round the calm forehead of the hill,
And, full of sleep, the long day fades.
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