So fragile and so exquisite that rime
Could but produce the soundings of her name,
And leave all cold the radiance, the flame
Which from her gaze swept Dante out of time.
Oh, say not that a woman ever dies
When Dante loves her! Yet when Dante loves,
His soul becomes the body that he loves:
A woman will not have it otherwise.
XII.
If Beauty can be kind I know it not,