Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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I looked out over the gardens of Heaven, all
fragrant with the scent of Elysian flowers.
“Lift thy eyes and see,” said the Archangel,
reverently bending his head.
Ere my eyes had discerned the halo of pale
gold round her head, my heart had recognized
her. What an incomparable painter was he not,
Sandro Botticelli! There she came just as he
had so often painted her, so young, so pure, and
yet with that tender watchfulness of motherhood
in her eyes. Flower crowned maidens with
smiling lips and girlish eyes surrounded Her with
eternal spring, tiny angels with folded wings of
purple and gold held up Her mantle, others
stretched a carpet of roses before Her feet. St.
Clare, the beloved of St. Francis, whispered in
the Madonna’s ear and it almost seemed to me as
if the Mother of Christ had deigned to look at me
for a moment as she passed by.
“Fear not,” said the Archangel softly, “fear
not, the Madonna has seen you, she will remember
you in her prayers.”
“St. Peter tarries,” said the Archangel, “he
is fighting a hard battle with Savonarola for the
rescue of his cardinals.”
He lifted a corner of the golden curtain and
glanced down the peristyle.
“Do you see that friendly spirit in his white
robe and a flower stuck over his ear? I often
have a little chat with him, he is beloved by us
all here, he is as simple and innocent as a child.
I often watch him with curiosity, he always walks
about by himself picking up angel’s feathers
fallen on the ground, he has tied them into a sort
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