I walk with the stern Dante through his hell:
On either side a wall of spirits stands,
Who wave from out the gloom their wailing hands,
And answer each with sudden shriek and yell.
I bow, not daring to look up, while fear
Laps at my inmost soul, as in a lake
The waves against a single stone will break,
And the heart, drying up, has not one tear.
I sink, half-grasping at the bard, and he,
A kindred gloom upon his brow, turns round;
When, lo, a spirit from the gloomy bound
Glides in between the Florentine and me,
Who, as he feels his skirt, cries in dismay,
Qual maraviglia, and I swoon away.