Chapter IV: (Celeste writes to her father in his imprisonment at Siena.)

Dear father, it will seem a thousand years Until I see you home again and well. I would not have you doubt that all this time I have prayed for you continually. I saw A copy of your sentence. I was grieved; And yet it gladdened me, for I found a way To be of use, by taking on myself Your penance. Therefore, if you fail in this, If you forget it--and indeed, to save you The trouble of remembering it--your child Will do it for you. Ah, could she do more! How willingly would your Celeste endure A straiter prison than she lives in now To set you free. "A prison," I have said; And yet, if you were here, 'twould not be so. When you were pent in Rome, I used to say, "Would he were at Siena!" God fulfilled That wish. You are at Siena; and I now say Would he were at Arcctri. So perhaps Little by little, angels can be wooed Each day, by some new prayer of mine or yours, To bring you wholly back to me, and save Some few of the flying days that yet remain. You see, these other Nuns have each their friend, Their patron Saint, their ever near _devoto_, To whom they tell their joys and griefs; but I Have only you, dear father, and if you Were only near me, I could want no more. Your garden looks as if it missed your love. The unpruned branches lean against the wall To look for you. The walks run wild with flowers. Even your watch-tower seems to wait for you; And, though the fruit is not so good this year (The vines were hurt by hail, I think, and thieves Have climbed the wall too often for the pears), The crop of peas is good, and only waits Your hand to gather it. In the dovecote, too, You'll find some plump young pigeons. We must make A feast for your return. In my small plot, Here at the Convent, better watched than yours, I raised a little harvest. With the price I got for it, I had three Masses said For my dear father's sake.