Brightly shone the brow of Dante,
In those years of early youth,
When his Beatrice, like an angel,
Rose before him in her truth.
And he sang in happy music,
All the beauty that she bore—
Sang her maiden truth and sweetness—
Made her famous evermore.
In that golden time what worship
Rang with most melodious chime
From his inmost haunt of being,
Making all his life sublime.
Cool and sweet was then the laurel,
Clasping his unfurrow'd brow,
Glowing with the future gladness,
And the lover's faith and vow.
Thus I like to think of Dante,
As he stept in light along;
Worshipping in golden visions,
She who came and woke his song.
But I turn away in sadness
From the pain, and gloom, and tears,
Rising upward with that vision,
In the midway of his years:
Turn away from all its shadows,
To that first sweet spring of song,
When his Beatrice starr'd his youthtime,
And his soul had felt no wrong.