In the middle of this life’s journey

He came, like Dante, on a wood

The notes said stood for error

But in his case stood for good,

Where his art and prowess left him

And let him become a child

To whom the wild seemed milder

Than his old neighborhood.

Had he, with those abandoned

Sons of fatal decrees,

Then been found by a shepherd

And bred up to shepherdese,

Or retrieved, like Dante, by Virgil

And led through circles and seas

To some brighter country beyond

His annotated trees,

He could not have been more cared for.

Nature was awfully kind.

Hell in that motherly habit

Put hell quite out of mind.

How in that Arden could human

Frailty be but glossed?

How in that Eden could Adam

Really be lost?