Beatrice's Mysteries

Was it her innocent's eyes, Her clear unlearned expression That shone so in the bright Italian sun, That made of her one great mind's obsession, That guided a heart that turned on her sighs To ignite Inspiration once her life's short course was run, Was it this, Or the sting of so fair a flower's sudden blight, Her passing without so much as a kiss To him who would such glories later write That the dark age all around would begin to lift? What heart can fathom, what mind may sift The whys and wherefores of her unplanned effect Upon her admirer, so gifted and silent Who with a lifetime's patience would erect A monument of words immune to time's drift, Too strong for change, however violent A work of Forever Standing tribute to every form of beauty The measure of his love's endeavor To exalt its object as a sacred duty, To steal back his beloved from the grave's cold grasp?