VI.

The pilgrim hearkens to his guide’s strong words, Basks in their sunshine, thanketh for their dew, Yet wonders, could his eyes behold the blue As well as ears can mark the song of birds, If something still he lacks he might not find— Some perfect key of heavenly harmony That should attune all sad discordancy, In true accord the clashing fragments bind. Soft fall the _Angelus_ bells on listening ear, The _Miserere_, in distress divine, Wails from the heart of city Leonine. Feels he the light that makes his darkness clear, Grasps he the chord of pure and infinite blue His picture lacks to make its color true.