A Poem by the British poet Elizabeth Jennings.
It is not possible to say how much
We owe to him, because his splendour blinds
Our eyes. Simpler it is to blame those minds
Too small to honour him, to sense his touch.
He did not fear to plumb to places where
Failure alone survives. But this was done
For our example. Only his country dared to shun
His greatness. Her ingratitude at last
Turned on herself. As proof of this, observe
How always to the perfect sorrows fall
Most painfully. To those who are the best
Most ill occurs. Dante did not deserve
Exile; his equal never lived at all.