Once more, once more, Inarimé, <br />I see thy purple hills!--once more <br />I hear the billows of the bay <br />Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. <br /> <br />High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, <br />Like a great galleon wrecked and cast <br />Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, <br />A mouldering landmark of the Past. <br /> <br />Upon its terrace-walk I see <br />A phantom gliding to and fro; <br />It is Colonna,--it is she <br />Who lived and loved so long ago. <br /> <br />Pescara's beautiful young wife, <br />The type of perfect womanhood, <br />Whose life was love, the life of life, <br />That time and change and death withstood. <br /> <br />For death, that breaks the marriage band <br />In others, only closer pressed <br />The wedding-ring upon her hand <br />And closer locked and barred her breast. <br /> <br />She knew the life-long martyrdom, <br />The weariness, the endless pain <br />Of waiting for some one to come <br />Who nevermore would come again. <br /> <br />The shadows of the chestnut trees, <br />The odor of the orange blooms, <br />The song of birds, and, more than these, <br />The silence of deserted rooms; <br /> <br />The respiration of the sea, <br />The soft caresses of the air, <br />All things in nature seemed to be <br />But ministers of her despair; <br /> <br />Till the o'erburdened heart, so long <br />Imprisoned in itself, found vent <br />And voice in one impassioned song <br />Of inconsolable lament. <br /> <br />Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, <br />Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, <br />Her life was interfused with light, <br />From realms that, though unseen, exist, <br /> <br />Inarimé! Inarimé! <br />Thy castle on the crags above <br />In dust shall crumble and decay, <br />But not the memory of her love.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vittoria-colonna/
