Maddalena's confession.
41
What sorrow like a tearful angel rent
The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,
Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face
None looked except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to Heaven. Oh, to my sense,
Her beauty was unreal; whether she prayed
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair, whether we twain
Paced the long galleries where ranged silver sconces,
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms, whether to her voice
I listened while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue holy eyes. I loved her well!
I stopped my play to look if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe that my arms might clasp her waist,
The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,
Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face
None looked except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to Heaven. Oh, to my sense,
Her beauty was unreal; whether she prayed
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair, whether we twain
Paced the long galleries where ranged silver sconces,
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms, whether to her voice
I listened while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue holy eyes. I loved her well!
I stopped my play to look if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe that my arms might clasp her waist,
