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Lady Beatrice's Musing
Although I move and muse his poetry
that he writes as his promised gift to me,
I am not its conclusion---nor should be:
that privilege is for God, and not for me.
I am not full of pinnacled conceit
or other sinful pride that always mars
lives on the earth. His massive poem designs
my proper place among the rhyming lines:
a path beneath my shoeless, stockinged feet
on which, at Purgatory's peak, we meet
beyond the flame, where I will stand, unshod,
when Vergil brings him. Soon, Dante will see
the happy souls summoned for him by God
Whose Love muses, and lights, and moves the stars.
Starward
[jlc]
