Disclosing memories, tender, dear,
And hopes secure from earthly strife,
She stands—good angels know how near
To heaven,—crown’d with the harvest-wreath
Of a fair, fruitful life:—
A lovelier diadem, I ween,
On seraph brow was never seen.
THE MEASURE.
From what a depth within the poet’s heart,
The sorrow Dante weds to deathless Art!