Classic Poem

Ye prilgrim-folk, advancing pensively
As if in thought of distant things, I pray,
Is your own land indeed so far away--
As by your aspect it would seem to be--
That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free
Though passing through the mournful town midway;
Like unto men that understand to-day
Nothing at all of her great misery?
Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,
And listen to my words a little space,
At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.
It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;
Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace
That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.