III
I enter, and I see thee in the gloomOf the long aisles, O poet saturnine!And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.The air is filled with some unknown perfume;The congregation of the dead make roomFor thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s groves of pine,The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.From the confessionals I hear ariseRehearsals of forgotten tragedies,And lamentations from the crypts belowAnd then a voice celestial that beginsWith the pathetic words, “Although your sinsAs scarlet be,” and ends with “as the snow.”