for anna

Muse

1924

When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient, Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread. 
What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation, When compared with the gentle piper's tread?  
And she came in, threw out the mantle's edges, Declined to me with a sincere heed. 
I say to her, "Did you dictate the Pages Of Hell to Dante?" 
She answers, "Yes, I did."