Comfort of Dante
Down where the unconquered river still flows on,
One strong free thing within a prison’s heart,
I drew me with my sacred grief apart,
That it might look that spacious joy upon:
And as I mused, lo! Dante walked with me,
And his face spake of the high peace of pain
Till all my grief glowed in me throbbingly
As in some lily’s heart might glow the rain.
So like a star I listened, till mine eye
Caught that lone land across the water-way
Wherein my lady breathed,—now breathing is—
‘O Dante,’ then I said, ‘she more than I
Should know thy comfort, go to
her, I pray.’
‘Nay!’ answered he, ‘for she hath Beatrice.’
