The moon's obscured and all the stars are dead.     

  

 [Cries, as though hailing someone] 

  

       Lorenzo, ho Lorenzo! Are you there?     

       I heard your singing. I am come, old friend.     

  

 [Listens; then to himself] 

  

       What's over there? I thought a shadow stirred.     

       There, over there! Beneath Piero's wall.     

       Hath Pagan Plato triumphed over Christ     

       And sent his chief apostle back to us?     

       Or hath Lord Christ in his compassion wrought     

       That kindness Dives craved of Abraham,     

       Sending Lorenzo here from off his breast     

       To bid me snatch my Joy ere Death befalls?     

       No . . . no, the moon shines through and makes     

       all plain.     

       This is some old Florentine Lazarus—     

 Prev. P 19/142 next