LITMIR.BIZ

      MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS

      From THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO 28, LINES 1-51

      And earnest to explore within—around—

      The divine wood, whose thick green living woof

      Tempered the young day to the sight—I wound

      Up the green slope, beneath the forest’s roof,

      With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain’s steep,

      And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof

      Against the air, that in that stillness deep

      And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,

      The slow, soft stroke of a continuous . . .

      In which the [ ] leaves tremblingly were

      All bent towards that part where earliest

      The sacred hill obscures the morning air.

      Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,

      But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,

      Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,

      With perfect joy received the early day,

      Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound

      Kept a low burden to their roundelay,

      Such as from bough to bough gathers around

      The pine forest on bleak Chiassi’s shore,

      When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound.

      My slow steps had already borne me o’er

      Such space within the antique wood, that I

      Perceived not where I entered any more,—

      When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,

      Bending towards the left through grass that grew

      Upon its bank, impeded suddenly

      My going on. Water of purest hue

      On earth, would appear turbid and impure

      Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,

      Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure

      Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms

      The rays of moon or sunlight ne’er endure.

      I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms

      Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating

      The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms

      Which starred that night, when, even as a thing

      That suddenly, for blank astonishment,

      Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,—

      A solitary woman! and she went

      Singing and gathering flower after flower,

      With which her way was painted and besprent.

      Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power

      To bear true witness of the heart within,

      Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower

      Towards this bank. I prithee let me win

      This much of thee, to come, that I may hear

      Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen,

      Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here

      And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when

      She lost the Spring, and Ceres her more dear.