I.

Amid those shining ways of Italy I thought of one who walks with bandaged eyes, Led by some loving guide who, in sweet guise Of eloquent speech, makes blinded vision see The very lines that make tall towers fair, The peaceful saints that guard cathedral door— In death still keeping watch the people o’er— Lifting tired souls to holy heights of prayer. Even frail nest familiar form doth wear Built far above upon the shoulders broad Of sculptured friar, bearing light the load His brother birds give, trustful, in his care. So, poet-led, seemeth scarce need of eyes, Pictured earth’s loveliness in words so wise.