(Such he gave his daily dreadful line to)
“Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.”
Says the poet—“Then I stopped my painting.”
VI.
You and I would rather see that angel,
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno.
VII.
You and I will never see that picture.
While he mused on love and Beatrice,