They hasten down Night’s stairs of ivory.
Faint grow the little star-lamps. They fade soon.
But through frost ferns faint, pallid lustres creep
Where white-armed little Nymphs sleep love’s deep sleep.
LXIII
“Scrivo sol per sfogar l’interna doglia”
Vittoria Colonna
My heart’s a wound of piteousness to-day
Because our crimson room last night was seen
The shadow of all sin since time has been—