Her thread the muse, like Ariadne weaving,
Conducts us through the gloom.
She fronts the sun—and on the purple ridges
The virgin Future lifts her veil of snow —
Looks westward, and an arch of splendor bridges
The gulf of Long Ago.
She speaks, and, lo! Italian sunlight flashes
Over the dark expanse of northern skies —
Death hears her thrilling cry, and cold, gray ashes
Take mortal shape, and rise.