Matilda Gathering Flowers
Lines:52Movement:Romanticism
FROM THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO 28, LINES 1-51. And earnest to explore within--around--The divine wood, whose thick green living woofTempered the young day to the sight--I wound Up the green slope, beneath the forest's roof,With slow, soft steps leaving the mountain's steep,And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof Against the air, that in that stillness deepAnd solemn, struck upon my forehead bare,The slow, soft stroke of a continuous... In which the ... leaves tremblingly wereAll bent towards that part where earliestThe sacred hill obscures the morning air. Yet were they not so shaken from the rest,But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,Incessantly renewing their blithe quest, With perfect joy received the early day,Singing within the glancing leaves, whose soundKept a low burden to their roundelay, Such as from bough to bough gathers aroundThe pine forest on bleak Chiassi's shore,When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound. My slow steps had already borne me o'erSuch space within the antique wood, that IPerceived not where I entered any more,-- When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by,Bending towards the left through grass that grewUpon its bank, impeded suddenly My going on. Water of purest hueOn earth, would appear turbid and impureCompared with this, whose unconcealing dew, Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscureEternal shades, whose interwoven loomsThe rays of moon or sunlight ne'er endure. I moved not with my feet, but mid the gloomsPierced with my charmed eye, contemplatingThe mighty multitude of fresh May blooms Which starred that night, when, even as a thingThat suddenly, for blank astonishment,Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,-- A solitary woman! and she wentSinging and gathering flower after flower,With which her way was painted and besprent. 'Bright lady, who, if looks had ever powerTo bear true witness of the heart within,Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower Towards this bank. I prithee let me winThis much of thee, to come, that I may hearThy song: like Proserpine, in Enna's glen, Thou seemest to my fancy, singing hereAnd gathering flowers, as that fair maiden whenShe lost the Spring, and Ceres her, more dear.