Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Vittoria Colonna

Once more, once more, Inarime,        &nbsp I see thy purple hills!—once more I hear the billows of the bay        &nbsp Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,        &nbsp Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,        &nbsp A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see        &nbsp A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna,—it is she        &nbsp Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife,        &nbsp The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life,        &nbsp That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band        &nbsp In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand        &nbsp And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom,        &nbsp The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come        &nbsp Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees,        &nbsp The odor of the orange blooms, The song of birds, and, more than these,        &nbsp The silence of deserted rooms; The respiration of the sea,        &nbsp The soft caresses of the air, All things in nature seemed to be        &nbsp But ministers of her despair; Till the o'erburdened heart, so long        &nbsp Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song        &nbsp Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight,        &nbsp Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light,        &nbsp From realms that, though unseen, exist, Inarime! Inarime!        &nbsp Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay,        &nbsp But not the memory of her love.