Ah, poor Francesca, ’tis not such as thou
    That up the stony steeps of heaven climb;
  Take thou thy heaven with thy Paolo now—­
    Sweet saint of sin, saint of a deathless rhyme,
    Song shall defend thee at the bar of Time,
  Dante shall set thy fair young glowing face
    On the dark background of his theme sublime,
  And Thou and He in your superb disgrace
Still on that golden wind of passion shall embrace.

* * * * *

  So love this twain, but whither have they passed? 
    Ah me, that dark must always follow day,
  That Love’s last kiss is surely kissed at last,
    Howe’er so wildly the poor lips may pray: 
    Merciful God, is there no other way? 
  And pen, O must thou of the ending write,
    The hour Lanciotto found them where they lay,
  Folded together, weary with delight,
Within the sumptuous petals of the rose of night.

  Yea, for Lanciotto found them:  many an hour
    Ere their dear joy had run its doomed date,
  Had they, in silken nook and blossomed bower,
    All unsuspect the blessed apple ate,
    Who now must grind its core predestinate. 
  Kiss, kiss, poor losing lovers, nor deny
    One little tremor of its bliss, for Fate
  Cometh upon you, and the dark is nigh
Where all, unkissed, unkissing, learn at length to lie.

  Bent on some journey of the state’s concern
    They deemed him, and indeed he rode thereon
  But questioned Paolo—­’What if he return!’
    ’Nay, love, indeed he is securely gone
    As thou art surely here, beloved one,
  He went ere sundown, and our moon is here—­
    A fear, love, in this heart that yet knew none!’
  How could he fright that little velvet ear
With last night’s dream and all its ghostly fear!

  So did he yield him to her eager breast,
    And half forgot, but could not quite forget,
  No sweetest kiss could put that fear to rest,
    And all its haggard vision chilled him yet;
    Their warder moon in nameless trouble set,
  There seemed a traitor echo in the place,
    A moaning wind that moaned for lovers met,
  And once above her head’s deep sunk embrace
He saw—­Death at the window with his yellow face.

  Had that same dream caught old Lanciotto’s reins,
    Bent in a weary huddle on his steed,
  In darkling haste along the blindfold lanes,
    Making a clattering halt in all that speed:—­
    ‘Fool! fool!’ he cried, ’O dotard fool, indeed,
  So ho! they wanton while the old man rides,’
    And on the night flashed pictures of the deed. 
  ’Come!’—­and he dug his charger’s panting sides,
And all the homeward dark tore by in roaring tides.