When Pity I met, poor child of the street,
And sad Hope, in rags, on the roadside,
I stopped on my way to bathe their feet,
And incense sweet floated far and wide.
Then was I put to death by order of the tyrant,
And from my breast gush'd forth the torrent
Which quench'd the ancient thirst of souls.
I was He to whom one prays at the slow close of day,
And in a halo of love, from far away,
My face floated moon-like to sorrowing souls.
III.
I dreamed of a garden where souls of the bless'd,
In robes of candor gather'd trefoils of gold,
And where by balmy breezes of azure caress'd
Svelte silvery flowers their beauty unfold.
On the shores of the river the trees gently sway'd.
And mystic levers dream in happy solitude;
White lambs of God over the pastures stray'd,
And all was rapture and plenitude.
Sanctified love without fever, without strife,
Drinks deep and clear at the urn of life.
O, for a draught of the heavenly wine!
And I stood there among the marjoram sweet,
And in slender white fingers of incorporeal spirit,
Held the celestial citole of melodies divine.
