Vittoria Colonna Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Once more, once more, Inarime,
       &nbsp I see thy purple hills!—once more
I hear the billows of the bay
       &nbsp Wash the white pebbles on thy shore.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,
       &nbsp Like a great galleon wrecked and cast
Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,
       &nbsp A mouldering landmark of the Past.

Upon its terrace-walk I see
       &nbsp A phantom gliding to and fro;
It is Colonna,—it is she
       &nbsp Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,
       &nbsp The type of perfect womanhood,
Whose life was love, the life of life,
       &nbsp That time and change and death withstood.

For death, that breaks the marriage band
       &nbsp In others, only closer pressed
The wedding-ring upon her hand
       &nbsp And closer locked and barred her breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
       &nbsp The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
       &nbsp Who nevermore would come again.