I turned-- as children do,
When hurt or affrighted, to their Mama--
To say to my guide:
"There is not one gram of blood
That does not tremble in me now--
I recognize the signs of the ancient flame!"
But emptiness only was there
Where a moment ago Virgil had stood.
Virgil, sweetest father;
Virgil, to whom I had entrusted
The safety of my soul.
And in that moment,
Not all the Garden that our ancient mother had lost
Could stop my cheeks--
Which he had washed with dew--
From being newly stained with tears.

Dante, "Purgatorio"