Canto LXVII

I dream'd there would be Spring no more,

      That Nature's ancient power was lost:

      The streets were black with smoke and frost,

They chatter'd trifles at the door.

I wander'd from the noisy town,

      I found a wood with thorny boughs:

      I took the thorns to bind my brows,

I wore them like a civic crown.

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns

      From youth and babe and hoary hairs:

      They call'd me in the public squares

The fool that wears a crown of thorns.

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child:

      I found an angel of the night:

      The voice was low, the look was bright,

He look'd upon my crown and smiled:

He reach'd the glory of a hand,

      That seem'd to touch it into leaf:

      The voice was not the voice of grief;

The words were hard to understand.