We wreathed about our darling’s head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
“She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they.”
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And...
We wreathed about our darling’s head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
“She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they.”
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And...
Translated by Henry Francis Cary
Selections from “The Divine Comedy”
Paradise: Canto XXXI.
IN fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then
Before my view the saintly multitude,
Which is his own blood Christ espoused. Meanwhile,
That other host, that soar aloft to gaze
And celebrate his glory, whom they love,
Hovered around; and, like a...
Glory is that bright tragic thing
That for an instant
Means Dominion —
Warms some poor name
That never felt the Sun,
Gently replacing
In oblivion —
I had the Glory — that will do —
An Honor, Thought can turn her to
When lesser Fames invite —
With one long "Nay" —
Bliss' early shape
Deforming — Dwindling — Gulfing up —
Time's possibility.
Of Glory not a Beam is left
But her Eternal House —
The Asterisk is for the Dead,
The Living, for the Stars —
