To the height he had gained.
And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand: “I was not to faint,—
One loved me for two—would be with me ere long:
And ‘Viva l’Italia!’ he died for, our saint,
Who forbids our complaint!”
My Nanni would add, “He was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was impressed
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed,