The Death of Beatrice
'Oh! silence mystical—oh! eyes
Silent; oh! silent lips; oh! hands
Most silent, hold me in such wise
That I may find those holy lands
She treads—cool fields of Paradise.'
Silent; oh! silent lips; oh! hands
Most silent, hold me in such wise
That I may find those holy lands
She treads—cool fields of Paradise.'
And now the evening wanes, and one
Draws nigh, even as though he came
From out the portals of the sun,
With wings that burn like a great flame,
And feet which seem to spurn and shun
Draws nigh, even as though he came
From out the portals of the sun,
With wings that burn like a great flame,
And feet which seem to spurn and shun
The earth; who bending over him
That weeps, and her, in one the twain
Joins with a thread wondrous and dim—
Such as from out Love's crimson skein
Unravel still the Seraphim.
That weeps, and her, in one the twain
Joins with a thread wondrous and dim—
Such as from out Love's crimson skein
Unravel still the Seraphim.
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