Classic Poem

Not “Beatricé,” rather “Bicé”—I
Was ignorant of Dante's heart until
The soft diminutive my heart did thrill
With tender lips and a caressing sigh.
For Beatricé might a warrior die,—
For Bicé it was that Dante lived to fill
The ages with a voice, and stamp his will,
Regnant, on all Italian destiny.

For Bicé the stern eyes were large with light
And stern lips softly luminous with song;
For her, like some melodious eagle's flight,
His deathless wingéd poem passed along
The clouds, before all listening peoples sight:—
For her the eternal toil-worn hands waxed strong.