I saw you flower in Florence. That was where
The bigwigs spotted you and marked your card.
The sage Contini knew you were a rare
Natural philologist worth his regard,
And while you learned, you taught me. From the way
You read me Dante I foretold today.

Today, so far from our first years, I bless
My judgment, which in any other case
Is something we both know I don't possess,
But one thing I did know. I knew my place.
I knew yours was the true gift that would bring
Our house the honours that mean everything:

The honour of our daughters raised to treat
All people with your scrupulous respect,
The honour of your laughter and the sweet
Self-abnegation of an intellect
That never vaunts itself though well it might,
And this above all, lovely in my sight —

Pursued through busy days in precious hours,
Pored over word by word and line by line
Year after year with concentrated powers
Of selfless duty to the grand design
Of someone long dead who was well aware
That dreams of peace on earth must court despair — 

The honour of the necessary task
Done well, not just for show, and done for keeps.
Could I have helped you more? Don't even ask.
I can hear Dante, grunting as he sleeps:
"You are the weakling and you always were.
If you would sing for glory, sing of her."