“Ah, do not look at this dry leprosy,” Entreated he, “which doth my skin discolour, Nor at default of flesh that I may have; But tell me truth of thee, and who are those Two souls, that yonder make for thee an escort; Do not delay in speaking unto me.” “That face of thine, which dead I once bewept, Gives me for weeping now no lesser grief,” I answered him, “beholding it so changed! But tell me, for God’s sake, what thus denudes you? Make me not speak while I am marvelling, For ill speaks he who’s full of other longings.” And he to me: “From the eternal council Falls power into the water and the tree Behind us left, whereby I grow so thin. All of this people who lamenting sing, For following beyond measure appetite In hunger and thirst are here re-sanctified. Desire to eat and drink enkindles in us The scent that issues from the apple-tree, And from the spray that sprinkles o’er the verdure; And not a single time alone, this ground Encompassing, is refreshed our pain,— I say our pain, and ought to say our solace,— For the same wish doth lead us to the tree Which led the Christ rejoicing to say ‘Eli,’ When with his veins he liberated us.” And I to him: “Forese, from that day When for a better life thou changedst worlds, Up to this time five years have not rolled round. If sooner were the power exhausted in thee Of sinning more, than thee the hour surprised Of that good sorrow which to God reweds us, How hast thou come up hitherward already? I thought to find thee down there underneath, Where time for time doth restitution make.” And he to me: “Thus speedily has led me To drink of the sweet wormwood of these torments, My Nella with her overflowing tears; She with her prayers devout and with her sighs Has drawn me from the coast where one where one awaits, And from the other circles set me free. So much more dear and pleasing is to God My little widow, whom so much I loved, As in good works she is the more alone; For the Barbagia of Sardinia By far more modest in its women is Than the Barbagia I have left her in. O brother sweet, what wilt thou have me say? A future time is in my sight already, To which this hour will not be very old, When from the pulpit shall be interdicted To the unblushing womankind of Florence To go about displaying breast and paps. What savages were e’er, what Saracens, Who stood in need, to make them covered go, Of spiritual or other discipline? But if the shameless women were assured Of what swift Heaven prepares for them, already Wide open would they have their mouths to howl; For if my foresight here deceive me not, They shall be sad ere he has bearded cheeks Who now is hushed to sleep with lullaby.