On the Fly-Leaf of Dante's "Vita Nuova"

There was a tall stern Exile once of old,

Who paced Verona's streets as dusk shades fell,

With step as measured as the vesper bell,

And face half-hidden by his hood's dark fold;

One whom the children, as he grimly stroll'd,

Would shrink from in the fear of a vague spell,

Crying, "The man who has been down to Hell,—

Or hanging in his footsteps, if more bold.

This little book is not by that stern man,

But by his younger self, such as he seems

In Giotto's fresco, holding up the flower.

Thinking of her whose hand, by Fate's strange plan,

He never touched on earth, but who, in dreams,

Oft led him into Heaven for an hour.