Fiammetta

In dream I passed the Gate that bears in black,“Here lies dead Hope.” The ineffable gold skyI saw between the pillars, looking back,And one young cloud, that slowly wandered byAs though it wondered. Downward, all was dark,And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry.

Anon, although alone, I whispered, “Hark!What lifeless laughter, crackling thorny-thin?”Then grew to sight what first I failed to markWhen from the accustomed light I entered in,--A group that pleasured by that barren wallAs Hell some delicate-blossomed close had been:One, gesturing, spake; the rest attended all,“Declare, ye circled shades, your home on earth!Declare the names your kindred used to call!”I cried, much marvelling at their mirthless mirth.A woman wavered to the space half litBy that lost sky: “In Florence had we birth;That company thou seest, who chose to sitTen sunny days, a fountain’s flight beside,Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit,What time by Arno many cursing died.Yes, Fiammetta am I. Thou little flame,(Thus the grave Angel, to this Gate my guide,)With what vain flickering hast thou proved thy name!Hast given to no chilled spirit aught of cheer;Shalt now be fed and kept alight with shame,And flicker evermore.”

Then did appearHer set smile’s irony, and I discernedThrough those her long dark languid eyes, right clearHow far below her soul forever burned.Her sleeves of scarlet hung in many a shred;Her silver chains were all to tarnish turned,And crisped were the laurels on her head.“Alas! why camest thou to this place of pain,--Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why?” I said,“Since many souls that bore the self-same stainTread the last ledge of Purgatory mount,And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain,Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount.Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings;Why then are these thus held to hard account?”

“Not such, O questioner, was the sin that bringsUs hither; but on earth so weak a partWe chose, that now no part in heavenly thingsIs granted us, nor yet will Hell’s deep heartReceive us, but in this dim borderlandWe dwell, and follow here our hollow artOf weaving tales, and are in semblance gay,Moved by a might we never may withstand.To our own dear delights we turned away;Forgot the city full of tears, forgotThe tolling bells, abandoned even to pray;But couched in some delectable safe spotSaw breezy olives whiten like the sea,And babbled, fools, of Love, and knew him not,Who else had set us from the grim Gate free,Being giant-strong to save the souls of men.But Hate came to us, richly masked, and weEsteemed him Love; and now among us tenSits very Hate. The life we prized is oursFor aye! Yet not so far, I deem, this denFrom sound of suffering as our fields of flowers.”With that weird smile, she turned as if to go.Loud groaned the lurid City, the sullen fenOf Styx, and all that grief that lies below.“Farewell,” I sighed, “Fiammetta!” But she, “Not so!What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!”