XVIII.

My dream it is ended, the curtain withdrawn. The night that lay hard on the breast of earth, Deep and heavy as a horrid nightmare, Moves by, and I look to the rosy dawn. . . . . I shall leave you here, with a leader fair; One gentle, with faith and fear of her worth. She shall lead you on through that Italy That the gods have loved; and may it be A light-hearted hour that, hand in hand, You wander the warm and the careless love-land.