Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image;For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter's, Or the Pantheon facade, or Michel Angelo's figures, Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,--But that face, those eyes,--ah, no, never anything like them;Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline, And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to.
After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it;I have had pain, it is true: I have wept; and so have the actors.
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At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting;I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries.
Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me.
Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain;All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be changed.
It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it;I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us;For it is certain enough I met with the people you mention;They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even;Stayed a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not.
Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence partly.
What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered.
Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion.
I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances.
Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering.