Maddalena's confession.
51
Was purple on the hills. Oh, I was weak
As a young child! Jacopo in his arms,
Would bear me to the sea-shore, where I sat
Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves,
Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs.
The music pleased me, but the married words
My dull ear noted not. Yet every day
Lifted my prostrate faculties. At last
The old life came to me again, and I
Lived with my books and memories.
Yet, oh heaven!
The dense gloom of the Roman chapel seemed
Stifling my soul. A horror brooded o'er me.
To my weak brain most dark forebodings came,
As night-birds haunt a ruin. As one left
In a dense labyrinth seeks in vain the outlet
As a lost bird that beats its wings against
The black roof of a cavern, so my thought,
Conscious of light, pursued it. Pleasure came,
And Fear uplifting with unsteady hand
Her wan lamp, by its shifting rays transformed
The siren to a spectre. Did I stoop
As a young child! Jacopo in his arms,
Would bear me to the sea-shore, where I sat
Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves,
Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs.
The music pleased me, but the married words
My dull ear noted not. Yet every day
Lifted my prostrate faculties. At last
The old life came to me again, and I
Lived with my books and memories.
Yet, oh heaven!
The dense gloom of the Roman chapel seemed
Stifling my soul. A horror brooded o'er me.
To my weak brain most dark forebodings came,
As night-birds haunt a ruin. As one left
In a dense labyrinth seeks in vain the outlet
As a lost bird that beats its wings against
The black roof of a cavern, so my thought,
Conscious of light, pursued it. Pleasure came,
And Fear uplifting with unsteady hand
Her wan lamp, by its shifting rays transformed
The siren to a spectre. Did I stoop
