But I got no further than two lines of it.

Then for a spell I sat biting my quill, my mind and the eyes of my soul full of Giuliana.
Presently I began to write again.

It was not an ode, but a prayer, oddly profane--and it was in Italian, in the "dialettale" that provoked Fifanti's sneers.

How it ran I have forgotten these many years.

But I recall that in it I likened myself to a sailor navigating shoals and besought the pharos of Giuliana's eyes to bring me safely through, besought her to anoint me with her glance and so hearten me to brave the dangers of that procellous sea.
I read it first with satisfaction, then with dismay as I realized to the full its amorous meaning.