Verses. Coolidge Susan

                                            A window oped.

        A voice—t'was his—demanded: "Who is there?"

        "Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone

        Change into horror, and he prayed aloud

        And called upon the saints, the while I urged,

        "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!

        I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"

        Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast;

        And, though I cried and beat upon the door

        And wailed aloud, no other answer came.

        Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove

        Down the hard distance towards my father's house.

        "They will have pity and will let me in,"

        I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."

        Cowards! At the high window overhead

        They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed:

        "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!

        I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"

        "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.

        My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax

        To St. Eustachio, would he but remove

        This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp

        Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust

        From out the window, and my brother cried,

        "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"

        Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb

        And the cold coffined ones? Up the long street,

        Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.

        My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;

        My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose

        Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape

        Saw never Florence since. The people call

        That street through which I walked and wrung my hands

        "Street of the Dead One," even to this day.

        The sleeping houses stood in midnight black,

        And not a soul was in the streets but I.

        At last I saw a flickering point of light

        High overhead, in a dim window set.

        I had lain down to die; but at the sight

        I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength

        Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then

        It was Antonio's door by which I lay.

        A window opened, and a voice called out:

        "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,

        "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,

        And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment more

        The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch

        Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.

        "O ghost or angel of my buried love,

        I know not, care not which, be welcome here!

        Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"

        I heard him say, and then I heard no more.

        It was high noontide when I woke again,

        To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,—

        My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,

        Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,

        Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet

        Over the pavement to Antonio's door.

        Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs.

        Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in,

        And to the court we swept—I in my shroud—

        To try the cause.

                   This was the verdict given:

        "A woman who has been to burial borne,

        Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;

        Who at her husband's door has stood and plead

        For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;

        Who from her father's house is urged and chased,

        Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.

        The Court pronounces the defendant—dead!

        She can resume her former ties at will,

        Or may renounce them, if such be her will.

        She is no more a daughter, or a spouse,

        Unless she choose, and is set free to form

        New ties, if so she choose."

                                 O, blessed words!

        That very day we knelt before the priest,

        My love and I, were wed, and life began.

        Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,

        Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.

        'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.

        But time is brief, and, had I told you not,

        Haply the story would have met your ears

        From them, the Amieri, my own blood,

        Now turned to gall, whose foul and bitter lips

        Will wag with lies when once my lips are dumb.

        (Pardon me, Virgin. I was gentle once,

        And thou hast seen my wrongs. Thou wilt forgive.)

        Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,

        To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.

        I, who have died once, do not fear to die.

        Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.

        Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits

        Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,

        I know I shall not stand long at that gate,

        Or knock and be refused an entrance there,

        For he will start up when lie hears my voice,

        The saints will smile, and he will open quick.

        Only a night to part me from that joy.

        Jesu Maria! let the dawning come.