Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.
It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate,
The shining gate where blessed ones go in.
“Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate?
What good deed did you in your life to win
The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”
Then the poor soul,—all downcast and dismayed,
Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air,
In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed
To think of aught accomplished which might bear