The Count my master longs to call you son
                so ardently he often swears that none
                but you shall have his precious daughter’s hand
                in holy matrimony.  Understand,
5              your grace, the Count in Tyrol is as great
                as you are in Ferrara.  His estate,                                       his wealth, his reputation—so immense
                that he could see his daughter crowned princess
                of any kingdom.  But his love of you,
10             sir, stays his hand.  “A duchy, that will do
                if it be fair Ferrara, second Rome
                where luminous Frà Pandolf made his home,”
                so says my master.  Yes, your grace, I said
                Frà Pandolf.  In this palace, you have led
15             me past the most exquisite works of art
                I’ve ever seen.  Yet this is but a part
                of your collection.  Where does Pandolf’s hand
                appear?  (I mean his famous art work and
                no severed bloody limb.)  In Tyrol we
20             have seen ourselves that curiosity,
                yet fear not, good your grace.  My breath grows short
                reporting how such relics flood our court!
                This hand’s ill rumors would have raised alarms 
                in Tyrol had not seventeen left arms
25             of John the Baptist shown up in the spring.
                A rumor is a hundred-headed thing,
                best quickly slain.  Your grace, thereis no need                  
                for you to think the Count pays any heed
                to such outlandish—Do you mount the stair?
30             I’ve not offended?  It looks dark up there,
                but I perceive you do intend to climb,
                and so I humbly follow you.  In time
                we shall discuss the dowry, though the bride                      
                is fair enough to make men set aside
35             the usual thoughts of monetary gain
                when they behold her.  Then they feel the pain
                of unrequited love above all, for
                the lady is so chaste, so holy, pure
                and in no aspect wanton.  She makes pale
40             the virtue of a nun who took the veil,                           
                retreated to a cloister—But you stay.
                You linger at that curtain.  In a way
                it looks like such a veil, except, your grace,
                it is as black as—Oh, dear God!  That face!
45            Forgive me, I was startled by the chance
                appearance of that deep and passionate glance,
                so lively and so earnest, that I—Oh!
                Forgive me, good your grace.  I did not know.
                I sit, of course.  Your wish is my command,
50             but, might I dare to ask—?  I understand.
                Then all smiles stopped together?  Barbara’s smile
                makes not so free.  Might I make free a while
                to linger up above here, with the aim
                of gazing at this—?  As you wish.  The name
55            Ferrara so delights the Count.  Your own
                munificence, in Tyrol, is well known.

                2003

                By Sarah Jett