Well, I will write less often, or no more,
But wait her coming.  No one born in Rome
Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome,
And must return to it.  I, who am born
And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,
Feel the attraction, and I linger here
As if I were a pebble in the pavement
Trodden by priestly feet.  This I endure,
Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere
Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves
That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,
In ages past.  I feel myself exalted
To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,
Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more,
And most of all, because the great Colonna
Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me
An inspiration.  Now that she is gone,
Rome is no longer Rome till she return. 
This feeling overmasters me.  I know not
If it be love, this strong desire to be
Forever in her presence; but I know
That I, who was the friend of solitude,
And ever was best pleased when most alone,
Now weary grow of my own company. 
For the first time old age seems lonely to me.
      [Opening the Divina Commedia. 
I turn for consolation to the leaves
Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue,
Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,
Betray the heat in which they were engendered. 
A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread
Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts
With immortality.  In courts of princes
He was a by-word, and in streets of towns
Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,
Himself a prophet.  I too know the cry,
Go up, thou bald head! from a generation
That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food
The soul can feed on.  There’s not room enough
For age and youth upon this little planet. 
Age must give way.  There was not room enough
Even for this great poet.  In his song
I hear reverberate the gates of Florence,
Closing upon him, never more to open;
But mingled with the sound are melodies
Celestial from the gates of paradise. 
He came, and he is gone.  The people knew not
What manner of man was passing by their doors,
Until he passed no more; but in his vision
He saw the torments and beatitudes
Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left
Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.

I strive in vain to draw here on the margin
The face of Beatrice.  It is not hers,
But the Colonna’s.  Each hath his ideal,
The image of some woman excellent,
That is his guide.  No Grecian art, nor Roman,
Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.

II

VITERBO

VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.