To see her beauteous eyes as eager is she, As I am to adorn me with my hands; Her, seeing, and me, doing satisfies.” And now before the antelucan splendours That unto pilgrims the more grateful rise, As, home-returning, less remote they lodge, The darkness fled away on every side, And slumber with it; whereupon I rose, Seeing already the great Masters risen. “That apple sweet, which through so many branches The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of, To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings.” Speaking to me, Virgilius of such words As these made use; and never were there guerdons That could in pleasantness compare with these. Such longing upon longing came upon me To be above, that at each step thereafter For flight I felt in me the pinions growing. When underneath us was the stairway all Run o’er, and we were on the highest step, Virgilius fastened upon me his eyes, And said: “The temporal fire and the eternal, Son, thou hast seen, and to a place art come Where of myself no farther I discern. By intellect and art I here have brought thee; Take thine own pleasure for thy guide henceforth; Beyond the steep ways and the narrow art thou. Behold the sun, that shines upon thy forehead; Behold the grass, the flowerets, and the shrubs Which of itself alone this land produces. Until rejoicing come the beauteous eyes Which weeping caused me to come unto thee, Thou canst sit down, and thou canst walk among them. Expect no more or word or sign from me; Free and upright and sound is thy free-will, And error were it not to do its bidding; Thee o’er thyself I therefore crown and mitre!” Purgatorio: Canto XXVIII Eager already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Taking the level country slowly, slowly Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A softly-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me No heavier blow than of a gentle wind, Whereat the branches, lightly tremulous, Did all of them bow downward toward that side Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; Yet not from their upright direction swayed, So that the little birds upon their tops Should leave the practice of each art of theirs; But with full ravishment the hours of prime, Singing, received they in the midst of leaves, That ever bore a burden to their rhymes, Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi, When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had carried me Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could not perceive where I had entered it. And lo! my further course a stream cut off, Which tow’rd the left hand with its little waves Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.