“O light, O glory of the human race! What stream is this which here unfolds itself From out one source, and from itself withdraws?” For such a prayer, ’twas said unto me, “Pray Matilda that she tell thee;” and here answered, As one does who doth free himself from blame, The beautiful lady: “This and other things Were told to him by me; and sure I am The water of Lethe has not hid them from him.” And Beatrice: “Perhaps a greater care, Which oftentimes our memory takes away, Has made the vision of his mind obscure. But Eunoe behold, that yonder rises; Lead him to it, and, as thou art accustomed, Revive again the half-dead virtue in him.” Like gentle soul, that maketh no excuse, But makes its own will of another’s will As soon as by a sign it is disclosed, Even so, when she had taken hold of me, The beautiful lady moved, and unto Statius Said, in her womanly manner, “Come with him.” If, Reader, I possessed a longer space For writing it, I yet would sing in part Of the sweet draught that ne’er would satiate me; But inasmuch as full are all the leaves Made ready for this second canticle, The curb of art no farther lets me go. From the most holy water I returned Regenerate, in the manner of new trees That are renewed with a new foliage, Pure and disposed to mount unto the stars. PARADISO Paradiso: Canto I The glory of Him who moveth everything Doth penetrate the universe, and shine In one part more and in another less. Within that heaven which most his light receives Was I, and things beheld which to repeat Nor knows, nor can, who from above descends; Because in drawing near to its desire Our intellect ingulphs itself so far, That after it the memory cannot go. Truly whatever of the holy realm I had the power to treasure in my mind Shall now become the subject of my song. O good Apollo, for this last emprise Make of me such a vessel of thy power As giving the beloved laurel asks! One summit of Parnassus hitherto Has been enough for me, but now with both I needs must enter the arena left. Enter into my bosom, thou, and breathe As at the time when Marsyas thou didst draw Out of the scabbard of those limbs of his. O power divine, lend’st thou thyself to me So that the shadow of the blessed realm Stamped in my brain I can make manifest, Thou’lt see me come unto thy darling tree, And crown myself thereafter with those leaves Of which the theme and thou shall make me worthy. So seldom, Father, do we gather them For triumph or of Caesar or of Poet, (The fault and shame of human inclinations,) That the Peneian foliage should bring forth Joy to the joyous Delphic deity, When any one it makes to thirst for it. A little spark is followed by great flame; Perchance with better voices after me Shall prayer be made that Cyrrha may respond!