⁠The fair fame wounded by the black priest's fang,
Giovanna's, and washed off her blithe and bold
⁠Boy-bridegroom's blood, that seemed so long to hang
On her fair hand, even till the stain of old
⁠Was cleansed with healing song, that after sang
Sharp truth by sweetest singers' lips untold
⁠Of pale Beatrice, though her death-note rang
⁠From other strings divine
⁠Ere his rekindling line
⁠With yet more piteous and intolerant pang
⁠Pierced all men's hearts anew
⁠That heard her passion through
⁠Till fierce from throes of fiery pity sprang