Classic Poem

O PASSION of the heart!
In whatso hidden chamber thou abidest,
Whereout on fire thou glidest
To film a glory round about our state;
'Tis thy blood quickeneth
Our life that is thy death,
O heart most passionate!

Thine was that passioning heart
Of Italy, the blood
That fed her; thine the art,
O Poet! hers the flood
Of poisonous pride to spurn thee from her gate —
Thee! that had crown'd her mistress of her fate.

O passion of the heart!
The burning heart of Dante, wing'd for serving,
Clove out a way unswerving
That led to deeper Hell, whence purified
It sought the Holy Place,
And lookt God in the face,
Then came back, sanctified.

High beat the stripling heart
That nine-year's day the Maid,
By Heaven throned apart,
Her great eyes unafraid
Lifted upon her guest, and that strong lover
Launcht his soul God's high secret to discover.