LXII.
And “winged words on which the soul would pierce
Into the height of love’s rare Universe”
Shall native flow from them as mother tongue
In softest strain to listening infant sung;
Till, the sad memories of unmeant wrong
Solving in music of conciliant song,
Man’s destiny with woman’s blended be
In one sublime progression,—full, and strong, and free.
LXIII.
L’Envoi.
The bard of yore, the stately Florentine,—
The seer of the dream men named Divine,—
Through whose grave tones one strenuous passion rolled,
While to slow ears the voice fell stern or cold,—
In his last verse proclaimed his crowning faith,
By words whose echoes pass the bar of death;—
As breathed his soul with Beatrice afar—
“The love that moves the sun and every circling star.”
WOMAN FREE.