Viterbo

Parting with friends is temporary death,As all death is. We see no more their faces,Nor hear their voices, save in memory;But messages of love give us assuranceThat we are not forgotten. Who shall sayThat from the world of spirits comes no greeting,No message of remembrance? It may beThe thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,Sudden as inspiration, are the whispersOf disembodied spirits, speaking to usAs friends, who wait outside a prison wall,Through the barred windows speak to those within.

As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me,As quiet as the tranquil sky above me,As quiet as a heart that beats no more,This convent seems. Above, below, all peace!Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends,Are with me here, and the tumultuous worldMakes no more noise than the remotest planet.O gentle spirit, unto the third circleOf heaven among the blessed souls ascended,Who, living in the faith and dying for it,Have gone to their reward, I do not sighFor thee as being dead, but for myselfThat I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes,Once so benignant to me, upon mine,That open to their tears such uncontrolledAnd such continual issue. Still awhileHave patience; I will come to thee at last.A few more goings in and out these doors,A few more chimings of these convent bells,A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears,And the long agony of this life will end,And I shall be with thee. If I am wantingTo thy well-being, as thou art to mine,Have patience; I will come to thee at last.Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens,Or wander far above the city walls,Bear unto him this message, that I everOr speak or think of him, or weep for him.

By unseen hands uplifted in the lightOf sunset, yonder solitary cloudFloats, with its white apparel blown abroad,And wafted up to heaven. It fades away,And melts into the air. Ah, would that ICould thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco,A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!