The eyes that weep for pity of the heart

The eyes that weep for pity of the heartHave wept so long that their grief languisheth,And they have no more tears to weep withal:And now, if I would ease me of a partOf what, little by little, leads to death,It must be done by speech, or not at all.And because often, thinking, I recallHow it was pleasant, ere she went afar,To talk of her with you, kind damozels,I talk with no one else,But only with such hearts as women’s are.And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.

Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,The kingdom where the angels are at peace;And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.Not by the frost of winter was she drivenAway, like others; nor by summer-heats;But through a perfect gentleness, instead.For from the lamp of her meek lowliheadSuch an exceeding glory went up henceThat it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,Until a sweet desireEntered Him for that lovely excellence,So that He bade her to Himself aspire;Counting this weary and most evil placeUnworthy of a thing so full of grace.

Wonderfully out of the beautiful formSoared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;And is in its first home, there where it is.Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warmUpon his face, must have become so vileAs to be dead to all sweet sympathies.Out upon him! an abject wretch like thisMay not imagine anything of her,—He needs no bitter tears for his relief.But sighing comes, and grief,And the desire to find no comforter,(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief),To him who for a while turns in his thoughtHow she hath been among us, and is not.

With sighs my bosom always labourethIn thinking, as I do continually,Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;And very often when I think of death,Such a great inward longing comes to meThat it will change the colour of my face;And, if the idea settles in its place,All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,I do become so shentThat I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.Afterward, calling with a sore lamentOn Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”And calling on her, I am comforted.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,Come to me now whene’er I am alone;So that I think the sight of me gives pain.And what my life hath been, that living dies,Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun,I have not any language to explain.And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.All joy is with my bitter life at war;Yea, I am fallen so farThat all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,To the dames going and the damozelsFor whom and for none elseThy sisters have made music many a day.Thou, that art very sad and not as they,Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.