On that side where our pathway was enclosed Fell from the lofty rock a limpid water, And spread itself abroad upon the leaves. The Poets twain unto the tree drew near, And from among the foliage a voice Cried: “Of this food ye shall have scarcity.” Then said: “More thoughtful Mary was of making The marriage feast complete and honourable, Than of her mouth which now for you responds; And for their drink the ancient Roman women With water were content; and Daniel Disparaged food, and understanding won. The primal age was beautiful as gold; Acorns it made with hunger savorous, And nectar every rivulet with thirst. Honey and locusts were the aliments That fed the Baptist in the wilderness; Whence he is glorious, and so magnified As by the Evangel is revealed to you.” Purgatorio: Canto XXIII The while among the verdant leaves mine eyes I riveted, as he is wont to do Who wastes his life pursuing little birds, My more than Father said unto me: “Son, Come now; because the time that is ordained us More usefully should be apportioned out.” I turned my face and no less soon my steps Unto the Sages, who were speaking so They made the going of no cost to me; And lo! were heard a song and a lament, “Labia mea, Domine,” in fashion Such that delight and dolence it brought forth. “O my sweet Father, what is this I hear?” Began I; and he answered: “Shades that go Perhaps the knot unloosing of their debt.” In the same way that thoughtful pilgrims do, Who, unknown people on the road o’ertaking, Turn themselves round to them, and do not stop, Even thus, behind us with a swifter motion Coming and passing onward, gazed upon us A crowd of spirits silent and devout. Each in his eyes was dark and cavernous, Pallid in face, and so emaciate That from the bones the skin did shape itself. I do not think that so to merest rind Could Erisichthon have been withered up By famine, when most fear he had of it. Thinking within myself I said: “Behold, This is the folk who lost Jerusalem, When Mary made a prey of her own son.” Their sockets were like rings without the gems; Whoever in the face of men reads ‘omo’ Might well in these have recognised the ‘m.’ Who would believe the odour of an apple, Begetting longing, could consume them so, And that of water, without knowing how? I still was wondering what so famished them, For the occasion not yet manifest Of their emaciation and sad squalor; And lo! from out the hollow of his head His eyes a shade turned on me, and looked keenly; Then cried aloud: “What grace to me is this?” Never should I have known him by his look; But in his voice was evident to me That which his aspect had suppressed within it. This spark within me wholly re-enkindled My recognition of his altered face, And I recalled the features of Forese.