XIII
They say that they who’ve sinned this sin of ours
May never after death know aught of light;
Naught can once cleanse their souls, nor make them white,
Nor Lydian scents make sweet the sin-stained hours.
A gate whose whirling swords have lightning’s powers
To blast and burn flash outward with such might
The black and barren road is bleached to bright
That leads down, downward, where the darkness cowers.
Come, Sweet, lift up your eyes! Be not afraid.
Behold!—within that pit a giant rose,
Its million, million petals, hearts of those
Who sinned this sin of ours all undismayed,
So rich, colossal, glorious and fair
It dims the white sword-whirl of judgment there!