Six hundred years have faded since she died,1
Or else (I know not which) since she was born,2
And if the former, Sonnet, thou must mourn,3
But if the latter, plume thee in the pride4
Of Florence, on the yellow Arno’s side,5
Wherein the fishing well may move our scorn,6
Minnows are all you get from night to morn,7
In that fair city Dante glorified.8
Thus, were she born six hundred years ago,9
Sonnet, go forth ! be glad ! and tell men so
!10
But if she died, then fold thy wings and weep,11
And say ‘ the Lady of the deathless Dream12
Six hundred years ago, by Arno’s stream,13
Six centuries ago, she fell asleep.’14