I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine, The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.
From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below And then a voice celestial that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."
