A Gleam of Crimson

Where old Florence sits majestic,
With her treasures round her spread,
Whispering to herself, and asking
Endless honor for her dead;
There, within the halls of silence
Kept for memories and for dreams,
Lo! a hue of softest crimson
Through the shadow always gleams.

Ah! that festa by the Arno!
Neighbors gathering, young and gay,
Singing, dancing, speaking praises
Of their lovely Tuscan May;
And, among them Beatrice,
Gentle, serious, in her place;
Guessing not her future story,
Nor the sweetness of her face.

Unremembered are her features;
All the eyes with joy aglow
On that fateful eve in Florence,
Darkened, centuries ago;
But forever, clothed in crimson,
Must a little phantom dance,
And a color, rare and fadeless,
Glow in Dante's sad romance.

Where old Florence sits majestic,
With her treasures round her spread,
Whispering to herself, and asking
Endless honor for her dead;
There, within the halls of silence
Kept for memories and for dreams,
Lo! a hue of softest crimson
Through the shadow always gleams.

Ah! that festa by the Arno!
Neighbors gathering, young and gay,
Singing, dancing, speaking praises
Of their lovely Tuscan May;
And, among them Beatrice,
Gentle, serious, in her place;
Guessing not her future story,
Nor the sweetness of her face.

Unremembered are her features;
All the eyes with joy aglow
On that fateful eve in Florence,
Darkened, centuries ago;
But forever, clothed in crimson,
Must a little phantom dance,
And a color, rare and fadeless,
Glow in Dante's sad romance.
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