The light, wilt know thee like the sickly one
That on her bed of down can find no ease,
But turns and turns again her ache to shun,”
Purgatorio: Canto VI.
“’T was now the hour the longing heart that bends
In voyagers, and meltingly doth sway,
Who bade farewell at morn to gentle friends;
And wounds the pilgrim newly bound his way
With poignant love, to hear some distant bell
That seems to mourn the dying of the day;