Anon the whirlwind flung them round that way;
  And then I cried, “Oh, if I ask nought ill,
  Poor weary souls, have speech with me, I pray.”

  As doves, that leave some bevy circling still,
  Set firm their open wings, and through the air
  Sweep homewards, wafted by their pure good will;

  So broke from Dido’s flock that gentle pair,
  Cleaving, to where we stood, the air malign;
  Such strength to bring them had a loving prayer.

  The female spoke.  “O living soul benign!”
  She said, “thus, in this lost air, visiting
  Us who with blood stain’d the sweet earth divine;

  Had we a friend in heaven’s eternal King,
  We would beseech him keep thy conscience clear,
  Since to our anguish thou dost pity bring.

  Of what it pleaseth thee to speak and hear,
  To that we also, till this lull be o’er
  That falleth now, will speak and will give ear.

  The place where I was born is on the shore,
  Where Po brings all his rivers to depart
  In peace, and fuse them with the ocean floor.

  Love, that soon kindleth in a gentle heart,
  Seized him thou look’st on for the form and face,
  Whose end still haunts me like a rankling dart.

  Love, which by love will be denied no grace,
  Gave me a transport in my turn so true,
  That to! ’tis with me, even in this place.

  Love brought us to one grave.  The hand that slew
  Is doom’d to mourn us in the pit of Cain.” 
  Such were the words that told me of those two.

  Downcast I stood, looking so full of pain
  To think how hard and sad a case it was,
  That my guide ask’d what held me in that vein.

  His voiced aroused me; and I said, “Alas
  All their sweet thoughts then, all the steps that led
  To love, but brought them to this dolorous pass.”

  Then turning my sad eyes to theirs, I said,
  “Francesca, see—­these human cheeks are wet—­
  Truer and sadder tears were never shed.

  But tell me.  At the time when sighs were sweet,
  What made thee strive no longer?—­hurried thee
  To the last step where bliss and sorrow meet?”

  “There is no greater sorrow,” answered she,
  “And this thy teacher here knoweth full well,
  Than calling to mind joy in misery.

  But since thy wish be great to hear us tell
  How we lost all but love, tell it I will,
  As well as tears will let me.  It befel,

  One day, we read how Lancelot gazed his fill
  At her he loved, and what his lady said. 
  We were alone, thinking of nothing ill.

  Oft were our eyes suspended as we read,
  And in our cheeks the colour went and came;
  Yet one sole passage struck resistance dead.

  ’Twas where the lover, moth-like in his flame,
  Drawn by her sweet smile, kiss’d it.  O then, he
  Whose lot and mine are now for aye the same,