Fain now to search within and round about the divine forest dense and living, which tempered the new day to my eyes, without longer waiting I left the bank, taking the level ground very slowly, over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A sweet breeze that had no variation in itself struck me on the brow, not with heavier blow than a soft wind; at which the branches, readily trembling, all of them were bending to the quarter where the holy mountain casts its first shadow; yet not so far parted from their straightness, that the little birds among the tops would leave the practice of their every art; but with full joy singing they received the early breezes among the leaves, which kept a burden to their rhymes, such as gathers from bough to bough through the pine forest upon the shore of Chiassi, when Aeolus lets forth Sirocco.[1] [1] The south-east wind. Now had my show steps carried me within the ancient wood so far that I could not see back to where I had entered it: and lo, a stream took from me further progress, which toward the left with its little waves was bending the grass that sprang upon its bank. All the waters, that are purest on the earth, would seem to have some mixture in them, compared with that which hides nothing, although it moves along dusky under the perpetual shadow, which never lets the sun or moon shine there. With feet I stayed, and with my eyes I passed to the other side of the streamlet, to gaze at the great variety of the fresh may; and there appeared to me, even as a thing appears suddenly which turns aside through wonder every other thought, a solitary lady, who was going along, singing, and culling flower from flower, wherewith all her path was painted. “Ah, fair Lady,[1] who warmest thyself in the rays of love, if I may trust to looks which are wont to be witnesses of the heart, may the will come to thee,” said I to her, “to draw forward toward this stream, so far that I can understand what thou art singing. Thou makest me remember where and what was Proserpine, at the time when her mother lost her, and she the spring.” [1] This lady is the type of the life of virtuous activity. Her name, as appears later, is Matilda. Why this name was chosen for her, and whether she stands for any earthly personage, has been the subject of vast and still open debate.