Maddalena's confession.
45
Dropped from the crucifix. Her favourite books,
Their pages' blistered by her frequent tears,
Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers,
Or pencilled down the margin by her hand.
But most I loved the picture of St. Catherine,
She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch
The Virgin guided, on her finger placed
The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder
Raised questioning to his mother's.
To that place
I crept at noonday. There I treasured all
Linked with Ginevra's memory. 'Twas now
A garland we had woven, now a kerchief
That kept the faint rose odour she had loved.
I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er
The books she prized; these, histories of Saints,
Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms.
I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace
With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed
All through the slumberous noontide, first I read
Of Augustine, who heard the voice of God
Speak to him in the garden; and of her,
Their pages' blistered by her frequent tears,
Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers,
Or pencilled down the margin by her hand.
But most I loved the picture of St. Catherine,
She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch
The Virgin guided, on her finger placed
The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder
Raised questioning to his mother's.
To that place
I crept at noonday. There I treasured all
Linked with Ginevra's memory. 'Twas now
A garland we had woven, now a kerchief
That kept the faint rose odour she had loved.
I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er
The books she prized; these, histories of Saints,
Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms.
I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace
With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed
All through the slumberous noontide, first I read
Of Augustine, who heard the voice of God
Speak to him in the garden; and of her,
