Dante.
I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope,
The last sands in my glass; a few brief grains
Divide me from the Angel in yon cope,
Whose studded azure never sheltered pains
Keener than mine! But, from my mount of years,
I look on my past life, as one whose chains
Have fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tears
Sweet glimmerings of the Empyrean come
Athwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears;