GONE

To touch the glove upon her tender hand,

To watch the jewel sparkle in her ring,

Lifted my heart into a sudden song

As when the wild birds sing.

To touch her shadow on the sunny grass,

To break her pathway through the darkened wood,

Filled all my life with trembling and tears

And silence where I stood.

I watch the shadows gather round my heart,

I live to know that she is gone —

Gone, gone for ever like the tender dove

That left the Arch alone.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti DANTE’S DREAM AT THE TIME OF THE DEATH OF BEATRICE Watercolour on paper. 1856 Tate, London

Данте Габриэль Россетти СОН ДАНТЕ О СМЕРТИ БЕАТРИЧЕ Бумага, акварель. 1856 Галерея Тейт, Лондон