Chapter 4

A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move. And I remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then perceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I could not choose but weep; and weeping I said within myself: “Certainly it must some time come to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die.” Then, feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and my brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follow.And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women with their hair loosened, which called out to me, “Thou shalt surely die;” after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said unto me, “Thou art dead.” At length, as my phantasy held on in its wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves, and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping: and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a certain friend came unto me and said: “Hast thou not heard? She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life.” Then I began to weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine eyes,which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having before them an exceedingly white cloud: and these angels were singing together gloriously, and the words of their song were these: “Osanna in excelsis;” and there was no more that I heard. Then my heart that was so full of love said unto me: “It is true that our lady lieth dead;” and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And so strong was this idle imagining, that it made me to behold my lady in death; whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white veil; and who was so humble of her aspect that it was as though she had said, “I have attained to look on the beginning of peace.” And therewithal I came unto such humility by the sight of her, that I cried out upon Death, saying: “Now come unto me, andbe not bitter against me any longer: surely, there where thou hast been, thou hast learned gentleness. Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee: seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?” And when I had seen all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true voice: “O excellent soul! how blessed is he that now looketh upon thee!”And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan thatshe made, (who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying: “Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.”Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was about to say, “O Beatrice! peace be with thee.” And already I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling. And when they beheld me, they began to say, “He seemeth as one dead,” and to whisper among themselves, “Let us strive if we may not comfort him.” Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover touching the cause of myfear. Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them, “This thing it was that made me afeard;” and told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem:—A very pitiful lady, very young,Exceeding rich in human sympathies,Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death;And at the wild words wandering on my tongueAnd at the piteous look within mine eyesShe was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.So by her weeping where I lay beneath,Some other gentle ladies came to knowMy state, and made her go:Afterward, bending themselves over me,One said, “Awaken thee!”And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?”With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,The while my lady’s name rose to my lips:But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,So feeble with the agony of tears,That I alone might hear it in my heart;And though that look was on my visage thenWhich he who is ashamed so plainly wears,Love made that I through shame held not apart,But gazed upon them. And my hue was suchThat they look’d at each other and thought of death;Saying under their breathMost tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”Then unto me: “What dreamWas thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”And when I was a little comforted,“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.“I was a-thinking how life fails with usSuddenly after such a little while;When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorousThat in myself I said, with sick recoil:‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’And therewithal such a bewildermentPossess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;And in my brain did ceaseOrder of thought, and every healthful thing.Afterwards, wanderingAmid a swarm of doubts that came and went,Some certain women’s faces hurried by,And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’“Then saw I many broken hinted sightsIn the uncertain state I stepp’d into.Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d youBy their own terror, and a pale amaze:The while, little by little, as I thought,The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,And each wept at the other;And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;And earth shook suddenly;And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,In a long flight flying back Heavenward;Having a little cloud in front of them,After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’And if they had said more, you should have heard.Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:Come and behold our lady where she lies.’These ’wildering phantasiesThen carried me to see my lady dead.Even as I there was led,Her ladies with a veil were covering her;And with her was such very humblenessThat she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’“And I became so humble in my grief,Seeing in her such deep humility,That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing goodHenceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.Lo! I do so desire to see thy faceThat I am like as one who nears the tomb;My soul entreats thee, Come.’Then I departed, having made my moan;And when I was aloneI said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, “But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say how I told them thismy imagination; and concerning this I have two parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second, saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them: and this part begins here, “Just then you woke me.”After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I perceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my lady; and he said, not aloud but within my heart: “Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee; for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.” And with that my heart was so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth mine own heart and not another.A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw comingtowards me a certain lady who was very famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady’s right name was Joan; but because of her comeliness (or at least it was so imagined) she was called of manyPrimavera(Spring), and went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart, saying: “She that came first was called Spring, only because of that which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that name to be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the year, so should she come first on this day,[21]when Beatrice was to showherself after the vision of her servant. And even if thou go about to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, ‘She shall come first;’ inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who went before the True Light, saying: ‘Ego vox clamantis in deserto: Parate viam Domini.’”[22]And also it seemed to me that he added other words, to wit: “He who should inquire delicately touching this matter, could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love; beholding her so like unto me.”Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words[23]which seemedproper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.And I wrote this sonnet:—I felt a spirit of love begin to stirWithin my heart, long time unfelt till then;And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”And in his speech he laugh’d and laugh’d again.Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,And saw the Ladies Joan and BeatriceApproach me, this the other following,One and a second marvel instantly.And even as now my memory speaketh this,Love spake it then: “The first is christen’d Spring;The second Love, she is so like to me.”This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells how I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and how it seemed that Love appeared to me joyful from afar. The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, I saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here, “Saying, ‘Be now;’” the third here, “Then, while it was his pleasure.” The third part divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I heard; and it begins here, “Love spake it then.”It might be here objected unto me, (and evenby one worthy of controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as though it were a thing outward and visible: not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily substance also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy; Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident of substance. Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a thing tangible and even human, appears by three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I say that I perceived Love coming towards me; whereby, seeing thatto comebespeaks locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy teacheth us that none but a corporeal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that I speak of Love as of a corporeal substance. And secondly, I say that Love smiled: and thirdly, that Love spake; faculties (and especially the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man: whereby it further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. Now that thismatter may be explained (as is fitting), it must first be remembered that anciently they who wrote poems of Love wrote not in the vulgar tongue, but rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I mean, among us, although perchance the same may have been among others, and although likewise, as among the Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language, but men of letters, treated of these things.[24]And indeed it is not a great number of years since poetrybegan to be made in the vulgar tongue; the writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding to the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language ofocoand the language ofsì,[25]we shall not find in those tongues any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty years. Also the reason why certain of a very mean sort obtained at the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man had written verses in the language ofsì: and of these, the first was moved to the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of a certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is against such as rhyme concerning other matters than love; that mode of speech having been first used forthe expression of love alone.[26]Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed them that is not allowed unto the writers of prose, and seeing also that they who write in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reasonable that a larger license should be given to these than to other modern writers; and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude which is permitted unto poets, should also be counted notunseemly in the rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that the former have caused inanimate things to speak as though they had sense and reason, and to discourse one with another; yea, and not only actual things, but such also as have no real existence, (seeing that they have made things which are not, to speak; and oftentimes written of those which are merely accidents as though they were substances and things human); it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like; which is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive as may afterwards be set forth in prose.That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Virgil, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto Æolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the Æneid,Æole, namque tibi, etc.; and that this master of the Winds madereply:Tuus, o regina, quid optes—Explorare labor, mihi jussa capessere fas est.And through the same poet, the inanimate thing speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the Æneid, where it is written:Dardanidæ duri, etc.With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh to the inanimate; as thus:Multum, Roma, tamen debes civilibus armis.In Horace, man is made to speak to his own intelligence as unto another person; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth the excellent Homer), as thus in his Poetics:Dic mihi, Musa, virum, etc.Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning of his discourseDe Remediis Amoris: as thus:Bella mihi, video, bella parantur, ait.By which ensamples this thing shall be made manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book. And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering hereat, I will hereadd, that neither did these ancient poets speak thus without consideration, nor should they who are makers of rhyme in our day write after the same fashion, having no reason in what they write; for it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the semblance of metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and afterwards, being questioned thereof, should be unable to rid his words of such semblance, unto their right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as rhyme thus foolishly,) myself and the first among my friends do know many.But returning to the matter of my discourse. This excellent lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone before, came at last into such favour with all men, that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold her; which thing was a deep joy to me: and when she drew near unto any, so much truth and simpleness entered into his heart, that he dared neither to lift his eyes nor to return her salutation:and unto this, many who have felt it can bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed with humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw: and when she had gone by, it was said of many, “This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels of Heaven:” and there were some that said: “This is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work thus marvellously.” I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech; neither could any look upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue. Wherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her surpassing influence; to the end thatnot only they who had beheld her, but others also, might know as much concerning her as words could give to the understanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet:—My lady looks so gentle and so pureWhen yielding salutation by the way,That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.And still, amid the praise she hears secure,She walks with humbleness for her array;Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stayOn earth, and show a miracle made sure.She is so pleasant in the eyes of menThat through the sight the inmost heart doth gainA sweetness which needs proof to know it by:And from between her lips there seems to moveA soothing essence that is full of love,Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!”This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is afore narrated, that it needs no division; and therefore, leaving it, I say also that this excellent lady came into such favour with all men, that not only she herself was honoured and commended, but through her companionship, honour and commendation came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving this, and wishing that it should also be made manifest to those that beheld it not, wrote the sonnet here following; wherein is signified the power which her virtue had upon other ladies:—For certain he hath seen all perfectnessWho among other ladies hath seen mine:They that go with her humbly should combineTo thank their God for such peculiar grace.So perfect is the beauty of her faceThat it begets in no wise any signOf envy, but draws round her a clear lineOf love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:Not she herself alone is holierThan all; but hers, through her, are raised above.From all her acts such lovely graces flowThat truly one may never think of herWithout a passion of exceeding love.This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second, I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power, worked upon others. The second begins here, “They that go with her;” the third here, “So perfect.” This last part divides into three. In the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what she operated in them through others. In the third, I say how she not only operated in women, but inall people; and not only while herself present, but, by memory of her, operated wondrously. The second begins here, “Merely the sight;” the third here, “From all her acts.”Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I had said of my lady: to wit, in these two sonnets aforegone: and becoming aware that I had not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that especial time, it seemed to me that I had spoken defectively. Whereupon I resolved to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was then subject to her influence, and of what her influence then was. And conceiving that I should not be able to say these things in the small compass of a sonnet, I began therefore a poem with this beginning:—Love hath so long possessed me for his ownAnd made his lordship so familiarThat he, who at first irked me, is now grownUnto my heart as its best secrets are.And thus, when he in such sore wise doth marMy life that all its strength seems gone from it,Mine inmost being then feels throughly quitOf anguish, and all evil keeps afar.Love also gathers to such power in meThat my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing,Always solicitingMy lady’s salutation piteously.Whenever she beholds me, it is so,Who is more sweet than any words can show.************Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium![27]I was still occupied with this poem, (havingcomposed thereof only the above-written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most gracious lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good that I should say somewhat concerning her departure, I will herein declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behoveme to speak also mine own praises: a thing that in whosoever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath often had mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death: it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so closely allied unto my lady.I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy, her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October, is there the first month.Also she was taken from among us in that year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein she was born into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.[28]And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy (and also to the Christian verity), the revolving heavens are nine; and according to the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have influence over theearth. Wherefore it would appear that this number was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought: but more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The number three is the root of the number nine; seeing that without the interposition of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also One:—this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose only root is theHoly Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the reason that I find, and that liketh me best.After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias:Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc.And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore, seeing that theepistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking: more especially as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should be in the vulgar tongue.When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began “The eyes that weep.”

And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan thatshe made, (who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying: “Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.”

Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was about to say, “O Beatrice! peace be with thee.” And already I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling. And when they beheld me, they began to say, “He seemeth as one dead,” and to whisper among themselves, “Let us strive if we may not comfort him.” Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover touching the cause of myfear. Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them, “This thing it was that made me afeard;” and told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem:—

A very pitiful lady, very young,Exceeding rich in human sympathies,Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death;And at the wild words wandering on my tongueAnd at the piteous look within mine eyesShe was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.So by her weeping where I lay beneath,Some other gentle ladies came to knowMy state, and made her go:Afterward, bending themselves over me,One said, “Awaken thee!”And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?”With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,The while my lady’s name rose to my lips:But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,So feeble with the agony of tears,That I alone might hear it in my heart;And though that look was on my visage thenWhich he who is ashamed so plainly wears,Love made that I through shame held not apart,But gazed upon them. And my hue was suchThat they look’d at each other and thought of death;Saying under their breathMost tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”Then unto me: “What dreamWas thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”And when I was a little comforted,“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.“I was a-thinking how life fails with usSuddenly after such a little while;When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorousThat in myself I said, with sick recoil:‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’And therewithal such a bewildermentPossess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;And in my brain did ceaseOrder of thought, and every healthful thing.Afterwards, wanderingAmid a swarm of doubts that came and went,Some certain women’s faces hurried by,And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’“Then saw I many broken hinted sightsIn the uncertain state I stepp’d into.Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d youBy their own terror, and a pale amaze:The while, little by little, as I thought,The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,And each wept at the other;And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;And earth shook suddenly;And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,In a long flight flying back Heavenward;Having a little cloud in front of them,After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’And if they had said more, you should have heard.Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:Come and behold our lady where she lies.’These ’wildering phantasiesThen carried me to see my lady dead.Even as I there was led,Her ladies with a veil were covering her;And with her was such very humblenessThat she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’“And I became so humble in my grief,Seeing in her such deep humility,That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing goodHenceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.Lo! I do so desire to see thy faceThat I am like as one who nears the tomb;My soul entreats thee, Come.’Then I departed, having made my moan;And when I was aloneI said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”

A very pitiful lady, very young,

Exceeding rich in human sympathies,

Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death;

And at the wild words wandering on my tongue

And at the piteous look within mine eyes

She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.

So by her weeping where I lay beneath,

Some other gentle ladies came to know

My state, and made her go:

Afterward, bending themselves over me,

One said, “Awaken thee!”

And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?”

With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,

The while my lady’s name rose to my lips:

But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,So feeble with the agony of tears,That I alone might hear it in my heart;And though that look was on my visage thenWhich he who is ashamed so plainly wears,Love made that I through shame held not apart,But gazed upon them. And my hue was suchThat they look’d at each other and thought of death;Saying under their breathMost tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”Then unto me: “What dreamWas thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”And when I was a little comforted,“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.

But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,

So feeble with the agony of tears,

That I alone might hear it in my heart;

And though that look was on my visage then

Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears,

Love made that I through shame held not apart,

But gazed upon them. And my hue was such

That they look’d at each other and thought of death;

Saying under their breath

Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”

Then unto me: “What dream

Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”

And when I was a little comforted,

“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.

“I was a-thinking how life fails with usSuddenly after such a little while;When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorousThat in myself I said, with sick recoil:‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’And therewithal such a bewildermentPossess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;And in my brain did ceaseOrder of thought, and every healthful thing.Afterwards, wanderingAmid a swarm of doubts that came and went,Some certain women’s faces hurried by,And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’

“I was a-thinking how life fails with us

Suddenly after such a little while;

When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.

Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorous

That in myself I said, with sick recoil:

‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’

And therewithal such a bewilderment

Possess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;

And in my brain did cease

Order of thought, and every healthful thing.

Afterwards, wandering

Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went,

Some certain women’s faces hurried by,

And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’

“Then saw I many broken hinted sightsIn the uncertain state I stepp’d into.Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d youBy their own terror, and a pale amaze:The while, little by little, as I thought,The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,And each wept at the other;And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;And earth shook suddenly;And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’

“Then saw I many broken hinted sights

In the uncertain state I stepp’d into.

Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,

Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,

Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d you

By their own terror, and a pale amaze:

The while, little by little, as I thought,

The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,

And each wept at the other;

And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;

And earth shook suddenly;

And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,

Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...

Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’

“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,In a long flight flying back Heavenward;Having a little cloud in front of them,After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’And if they had said more, you should have heard.Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:Come and behold our lady where she lies.’These ’wildering phantasiesThen carried me to see my lady dead.Even as I there was led,Her ladies with a veil were covering her;And with her was such very humblenessThat she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’

“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,

I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,

In a long flight flying back Heavenward;

Having a little cloud in front of them,

After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’

And if they had said more, you should have heard.

Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:

Come and behold our lady where she lies.’

These ’wildering phantasies

Then carried me to see my lady dead.

Even as I there was led,

Her ladies with a veil were covering her;

And with her was such very humbleness

That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’

“And I became so humble in my grief,Seeing in her such deep humility,That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing goodHenceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.Lo! I do so desire to see thy faceThat I am like as one who nears the tomb;My soul entreats thee, Come.’Then I departed, having made my moan;And when I was aloneI said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”

“And I became so humble in my grief,

Seeing in her such deep humility,

That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing good

Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,

Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:

Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.

Lo! I do so desire to see thy face

That I am like as one who nears the tomb;

My soul entreats thee, Come.’

Then I departed, having made my moan;

And when I was alone

I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:

‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’

... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”

This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, “But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say how I told them thismy imagination; and concerning this I have two parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second, saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them: and this part begins here, “Just then you woke me.”

After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I perceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my lady; and he said, not aloud but within my heart: “Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee; for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.” And with that my heart was so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth mine own heart and not another.

A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw comingtowards me a certain lady who was very famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady’s right name was Joan; but because of her comeliness (or at least it was so imagined) she was called of manyPrimavera(Spring), and went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart, saying: “She that came first was called Spring, only because of that which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that name to be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the year, so should she come first on this day,[21]when Beatrice was to showherself after the vision of her servant. And even if thou go about to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, ‘She shall come first;’ inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who went before the True Light, saying: ‘Ego vox clamantis in deserto: Parate viam Domini.’”[22]And also it seemed to me that he added other words, to wit: “He who should inquire delicately touching this matter, could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love; beholding her so like unto me.”

Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words[23]which seemedproper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.

And I wrote this sonnet:—

I felt a spirit of love begin to stirWithin my heart, long time unfelt till then;And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”And in his speech he laugh’d and laugh’d again.Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,And saw the Ladies Joan and BeatriceApproach me, this the other following,One and a second marvel instantly.And even as now my memory speaketh this,Love spake it then: “The first is christen’d Spring;The second Love, she is so like to me.”

I felt a spirit of love begin to stir

Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;

And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain

(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),

Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”

And in his speech he laugh’d and laugh’d again.

Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,

I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,

And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice

Approach me, this the other following,

One and a second marvel instantly.

And even as now my memory speaketh this,

Love spake it then: “The first is christen’d Spring;

The second Love, she is so like to me.”

This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells how I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and how it seemed that Love appeared to me joyful from afar. The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, I saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here, “Saying, ‘Be now;’” the third here, “Then, while it was his pleasure.” The third part divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I heard; and it begins here, “Love spake it then.”

It might be here objected unto me, (and evenby one worthy of controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as though it were a thing outward and visible: not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily substance also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy; Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident of substance. Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a thing tangible and even human, appears by three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I say that I perceived Love coming towards me; whereby, seeing thatto comebespeaks locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy teacheth us that none but a corporeal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that I speak of Love as of a corporeal substance. And secondly, I say that Love smiled: and thirdly, that Love spake; faculties (and especially the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man: whereby it further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. Now that thismatter may be explained (as is fitting), it must first be remembered that anciently they who wrote poems of Love wrote not in the vulgar tongue, but rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I mean, among us, although perchance the same may have been among others, and although likewise, as among the Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language, but men of letters, treated of these things.[24]And indeed it is not a great number of years since poetrybegan to be made in the vulgar tongue; the writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding to the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language ofocoand the language ofsì,[25]we shall not find in those tongues any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty years. Also the reason why certain of a very mean sort obtained at the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man had written verses in the language ofsì: and of these, the first was moved to the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of a certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is against such as rhyme concerning other matters than love; that mode of speech having been first used forthe expression of love alone.[26]Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed them that is not allowed unto the writers of prose, and seeing also that they who write in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reasonable that a larger license should be given to these than to other modern writers; and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude which is permitted unto poets, should also be counted notunseemly in the rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that the former have caused inanimate things to speak as though they had sense and reason, and to discourse one with another; yea, and not only actual things, but such also as have no real existence, (seeing that they have made things which are not, to speak; and oftentimes written of those which are merely accidents as though they were substances and things human); it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like; which is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive as may afterwards be set forth in prose.

That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Virgil, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto Æolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the Æneid,Æole, namque tibi, etc.; and that this master of the Winds madereply:Tuus, o regina, quid optes—Explorare labor, mihi jussa capessere fas est.And through the same poet, the inanimate thing speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the Æneid, where it is written:Dardanidæ duri, etc.With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh to the inanimate; as thus:Multum, Roma, tamen debes civilibus armis.In Horace, man is made to speak to his own intelligence as unto another person; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth the excellent Homer), as thus in his Poetics:Dic mihi, Musa, virum, etc.Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning of his discourseDe Remediis Amoris: as thus:Bella mihi, video, bella parantur, ait.By which ensamples this thing shall be made manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book. And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering hereat, I will hereadd, that neither did these ancient poets speak thus without consideration, nor should they who are makers of rhyme in our day write after the same fashion, having no reason in what they write; for it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the semblance of metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and afterwards, being questioned thereof, should be unable to rid his words of such semblance, unto their right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as rhyme thus foolishly,) myself and the first among my friends do know many.

But returning to the matter of my discourse. This excellent lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone before, came at last into such favour with all men, that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold her; which thing was a deep joy to me: and when she drew near unto any, so much truth and simpleness entered into his heart, that he dared neither to lift his eyes nor to return her salutation:and unto this, many who have felt it can bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed with humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw: and when she had gone by, it was said of many, “This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels of Heaven:” and there were some that said: “This is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work thus marvellously.” I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech; neither could any look upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue. Wherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her surpassing influence; to the end thatnot only they who had beheld her, but others also, might know as much concerning her as words could give to the understanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet:—

My lady looks so gentle and so pureWhen yielding salutation by the way,That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.And still, amid the praise she hears secure,She walks with humbleness for her array;Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stayOn earth, and show a miracle made sure.She is so pleasant in the eyes of menThat through the sight the inmost heart doth gainA sweetness which needs proof to know it by:And from between her lips there seems to moveA soothing essence that is full of love,Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!”

My lady looks so gentle and so pure

When yielding salutation by the way,

That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,

And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.

And still, amid the praise she hears secure,

She walks with humbleness for her array;

Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay

On earth, and show a miracle made sure.

She is so pleasant in the eyes of men

That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain

A sweetness which needs proof to know it by:

And from between her lips there seems to move

A soothing essence that is full of love,

Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!”

This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is afore narrated, that it needs no division; and therefore, leaving it, I say also that this excellent lady came into such favour with all men, that not only she herself was honoured and commended, but through her companionship, honour and commendation came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving this, and wishing that it should also be made manifest to those that beheld it not, wrote the sonnet here following; wherein is signified the power which her virtue had upon other ladies:—

For certain he hath seen all perfectnessWho among other ladies hath seen mine:They that go with her humbly should combineTo thank their God for such peculiar grace.So perfect is the beauty of her faceThat it begets in no wise any signOf envy, but draws round her a clear lineOf love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:Not she herself alone is holierThan all; but hers, through her, are raised above.From all her acts such lovely graces flowThat truly one may never think of herWithout a passion of exceeding love.

For certain he hath seen all perfectness

Who among other ladies hath seen mine:

They that go with her humbly should combine

To thank their God for such peculiar grace.

So perfect is the beauty of her face

That it begets in no wise any sign

Of envy, but draws round her a clear line

Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.

Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:

Not she herself alone is holier

Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.

From all her acts such lovely graces flow

That truly one may never think of her

Without a passion of exceeding love.

This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second, I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power, worked upon others. The second begins here, “They that go with her;” the third here, “So perfect.” This last part divides into three. In the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what she operated in them through others. In the third, I say how she not only operated in women, but inall people; and not only while herself present, but, by memory of her, operated wondrously. The second begins here, “Merely the sight;” the third here, “From all her acts.”

Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I had said of my lady: to wit, in these two sonnets aforegone: and becoming aware that I had not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that especial time, it seemed to me that I had spoken defectively. Whereupon I resolved to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was then subject to her influence, and of what her influence then was. And conceiving that I should not be able to say these things in the small compass of a sonnet, I began therefore a poem with this beginning:—

Love hath so long possessed me for his ownAnd made his lordship so familiarThat he, who at first irked me, is now grownUnto my heart as its best secrets are.And thus, when he in such sore wise doth marMy life that all its strength seems gone from it,Mine inmost being then feels throughly quitOf anguish, and all evil keeps afar.Love also gathers to such power in meThat my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing,Always solicitingMy lady’s salutation piteously.Whenever she beholds me, it is so,Who is more sweet than any words can show.************

Love hath so long possessed me for his own

And made his lordship so familiar

That he, who at first irked me, is now grown

Unto my heart as its best secrets are.

And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar

My life that all its strength seems gone from it,

Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit

Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar.

Love also gathers to such power in me

That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing,

Always soliciting

My lady’s salutation piteously.

Whenever she beholds me, it is so,

Who is more sweet than any words can show.

******

Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium![27]

I was still occupied with this poem, (havingcomposed thereof only the above-written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most gracious lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good that I should say somewhat concerning her departure, I will herein declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.

And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behoveme to speak also mine own praises: a thing that in whosoever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.

Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath often had mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death: it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so closely allied unto my lady.

I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy, her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October, is there the first month.Also she was taken from among us in that year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein she was born into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.[28]

And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy (and also to the Christian verity), the revolving heavens are nine; and according to the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have influence over theearth. Wherefore it would appear that this number was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought: but more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The number three is the root of the number nine; seeing that without the interposition of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also One:—this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose only root is theHoly Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the reason that I find, and that liketh me best.

After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias:Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc.And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore, seeing that theepistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking: more especially as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should be in the vulgar tongue.

When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began “The eyes that weep.”

That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second begins here, “Beatrice is gone up;” the thirdhere, “Weep, pitiful Song of mine.” The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, “And because often, thinking;” the third here, “And I will say.” Then, when I say, “Beatrice is gone up,” I speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I say how one weeps her parting; and this part commences here, “Wonderfully.” This part divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not. In the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my condition. The second begins here, “But sighing comes, and grief;” the third, “With sighs.” Then, when I say, “Weep, pitiful Song of mine,” I speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and stay with.The eyes that weep for pity of the heartHave wept so long that their grief languisheth,And they have no more tears to weep withal:And now, if I would ease me of a partOf what, little by little, leads to death,It must be done by speech, or not at all.And because often, thinking, I recallHow it was pleasant, ere she went afar,To talk of her with you, kind damozels,I talk with no one else,But only with such hearts as women’s are.And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,The kingdom where the angels are at peace;And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.Not by the frost of winter was she drivenAway, like others; nor by summer-heats;But through a perfect gentleness, instead.For from the lamp of her meek lowliheadSuch an exceeding glory went up henceThat it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,Until a sweet desireEntered Him for that lovely excellence,So that He bade her to Himself aspire;Counting this weary and most evil placeUnworthy of a thing so full of grace.Wonderfully out of the beautiful formSoared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;And is in its first home, there where it is.Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warmUpon his face, must have become so vileAs to be dead to all sweet sympathies.Out upon him! an abject wretch like thisMay not imagine anything of her,—He needs no bitter tears for his relief.But sighing comes, and grief,And the desire to find no comforter,(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief),To him who for a while turns in his thoughtHow she hath been among us, and is not.With sighs my bosom always labourethIn thinking, as I do continually,Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;And very often when I think of death,Such a great inward longing comes to meThat it will change the colour of my face;And, if the idea settles in its place,All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,I do become so shentThat I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.Afterward, calling with a sore lamentOn Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”And calling on her, I am comforted.Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,Come to me now whene’er I am alone;So that I think the sight of me gives pain.And what my life hath been, that living dies,Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun,I have not any language to explain.And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.All joy is with my bitter life at war;Yea, I am fallen so farThat all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,To the dames going and the damozelsFor whom and for none elseThy sisters have made music many a day.Thou, that art very sad and not as they,Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as herequired. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: “Stay now with me,” etc.This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, “Mark how they force.”Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs,Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.Mark how they force their way out and press through;If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.Seeing that now indeed my weary eyesOftener refuse than I can tell to you(Even though my endless grief is ever new),To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.Also in sighing ye shall hear me callOn her whose blessèd presence doth enrichThe only home that well befitteth her:And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of allSent from the inmost of my spirit in speechThat mourns its joy and its joy’s minister.But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless,looking closely, one must perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creaturehis lady, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them only for him.The poem begins, “Whatever while,” and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, “For ever.” And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant.Whatever while the thought comes over meThat I may not againBehold that lady whom I mourn for now,About my heart my mind brings constantlySo much of extreme painThat I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bowBeneath, until we win out of this life,Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth:So that I call on DeathEven as on Sleep one calleth after strife,Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grimAnd bare; and if one dies, I envy him.For ever, among all my sighs which burn,There is a piteous speechThat clamours upon death continually:Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turnSince first his hand did reachMy lady’s life with most foul cruelty.But from the height of woman’s fairness, she,Going up from us with the joy we had,Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;That so she spreads even thereA light of Love which makes the Angels glad,And even unto their subtle minds can bringA certain awe of profound marvelling.On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said: “Another was with me.”[29]Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels: in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, “That lady;” and as this sonnet hath two commencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of them here.I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, “Love knowing;” the third here, “Forth went they.” This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, “And still.” In this samemanner is it divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in the other.That lady of all gentle memoriesHad lighted on my soul;—whose new abodeLies now, as it was well ordained of God,Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.Love, knowing that dear image to be his,Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow’d,Unto the sighs which are its weary loadSaying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis;Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;With such a pang as oftentimes will batheMine eyes with tears when I am left alone.And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breathCame whispering thus: “O noble intellect!It is a year to-day that thou art gone.”Second Commencement.That lady of all gentle memoriesHad lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flow’dThe tears of Love; in whom the power abodeWhich led you to observe while I did this.Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in others, are then most moved unto weeping, asthough they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady; saying afterwards within myself: “Certainly with her also must abide most noble Love.” And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:—Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity springInto thy countenance immediatelyA while agone, when thou beheldst in meThe sickness only hidden grief can bring;And then I knew thou wast consideringHow abject and forlorn my life must be;And I became afraid that thou shouldst seeMy weeping, and account it a base thing.Therefore I went out from thee; feeling howThe tears were straightway loosened at my heartBeneath thine eyes’ compassionate control.And afterwards I said within my soul:“Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpartOf the same Love who holds me weeping now.”It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love; whereby she remembered me many times of my own most noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet: whichbegins, “Love’s pallor,” and which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid:—Love’s pallor and the semblance of deep ruthWere never yet shown forth so perfectlyIn any lady’s face, chancing to seeGrief’s miserable countenance uncouth,As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me;Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee,My heart might almost wander from its truth.Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyesFrom gazing very often upon thineIn the sore hope to shed those tears they keep;And at such time, thou mak’st the pent tears riseEven to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine;Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mineeyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly: “Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady looketh upon you? who so looketh merely in compassion of the grief ye then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed eyes! many a time will I make you remember it! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping.” And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this horriblecondition. And I wrote this which begins, “The very bitter weeping.”The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and this part begins here, “So far.” It well might receive other divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition.“The very bitter weeping that ye madeSo long a time together, eyes of mine,Was wont to make the tears of pity shineIn other eyes full oft, as I have said.But now this thing were scarce rememberèdIf I, on my part, foully would combineWith you, and not recall each ancient signOf grief, and her for whom your tears were shedIt is your fickleness that doth betrayMy mind to fears, and makes me tremble thusWhat while a lady greets me with her eyes.Except by death, we must not any wayForget our lady who is gone from us.”So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: “This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise; perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace.” And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: “What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all otherimagining?” Also there was another voice within me, that said: “And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayst from so much bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity.” Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself, bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it spoke of one who was gentle; being of itself most vile.[30]In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts were divided, one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is, appetite; the other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to remember mymost gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appetite towards her, but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins here, “And what is this?” the third here, “And the heart answers.”A gentle thought there is will often start,Within my secret self, to speech of thee:Also of Love it speaks so tenderlyThat much in me consents and takes its part.“And what is this,” the soul saith to the heart,“That cometh thus to comfort thee and me,And thence where it would dwell, thus potentlyCan drive all other thoughts by its strange art?”And the heart answers: “Be no more at strife’Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love’s messengerAnd speaketh but his words, from him received;And all the strength it owns and all the lifeIt draweth from the gentle eyes of herWho, looking on our grief, hath often grieved.”But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my memory ran back, according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so baselylet itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom: neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring themto shame and evil: from which things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, “Woe’s me!”I said, “Woe’s me!” because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough.Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that comeForth of my heart, its endless grief to prove,Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to moveTheir lids for greeting is grown troublesome.They wept so long that now they are grief’s home,And count their tears all laughter far above:They wept till they are circled now by LoveWith a red circle in sign of martyrdom.These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,Are grown at last so constant and so soreThat love swoons in my spirit with faint breath;Hearing in those sad sounds continuallyThe most sweet name that my dead lady bore,With many grievous words touching her death.About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance,[31](upon which countenance my dear lady now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful,passed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.Then I, beholding them, said within myself: “These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.” And I went on to say: “I know that if they were of a country near untous, they would in some wise seem disturbed, passing through this city which is so full of grief.” And I said also: “If I could speak with them a space, I am certain that I should make them weep before they went forth of this city; for those things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any.”And when the last of them had gone by me, I bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: “Ye pilgrim-folk.” I made use of the wordpilgrimfor its general signification; for “pilgrim” may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowardsthe House of St. James. For there are three separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory of God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward, whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no other apostle was buried so far from his birthplace as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers; in that they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.This sonnet is not divided, because its own words sufficiently declare it.Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensivelyAs if in thought of distant things, I pray,Is your own land indeed so far away—As by your aspect it would seem to be—That this our heavy sorrow leaves you freeThough passing through the mournful town midway;Like unto men that understand to-dayNothing at all of her great misery?Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,And listen to my words a little space,At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;Of whom the least word spoken holds such graceThat men weep hearing it, and have no choice.A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration) resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled.Therefore I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be conveyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and with that other which begins, “Stay now with me and listen to my sighs.” And the new sonnet is, “Beyond the sphere.”This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a “Pilgrim Spirit,” because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eyeweak against the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there whither my thought carries me—that is, to her admirable essence—I at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, “Ladies mine,” to show that they are ladies to whom I speak. The second part begins, “A new perception;” the third, “When it hath reached;” the fourth, “It sees her such;” the fifth, “And yet I know.” It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this division may pass, and therefore I stay not to divide it further.Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest spaceNow soars the sigh that my heart sends above:A new perception born of grieving LoveGuideth it upward the untrodden ways.When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,It sees a lady round whom splendours moveIn homage; till, by the great light thereofAbashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.It sees her such, that when it tells me thisWhich it hath seen, I understand it not,It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.And yet I know its voice within my thoughtOften remembereth me of Beatrice:So that I understand it, ladies mine.After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision:[32]wherein I sawthings which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I labour all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenancequi est per omnia sæcula benedictus.[33]Laus Deo.THE END.

The eyes that weep for pity of the heartHave wept so long that their grief languisheth,And they have no more tears to weep withal:And now, if I would ease me of a partOf what, little by little, leads to death,It must be done by speech, or not at all.And because often, thinking, I recallHow it was pleasant, ere she went afar,To talk of her with you, kind damozels,I talk with no one else,But only with such hearts as women’s are.And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,The kingdom where the angels are at peace;And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.Not by the frost of winter was she drivenAway, like others; nor by summer-heats;But through a perfect gentleness, instead.For from the lamp of her meek lowliheadSuch an exceeding glory went up henceThat it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,Until a sweet desireEntered Him for that lovely excellence,So that He bade her to Himself aspire;Counting this weary and most evil placeUnworthy of a thing so full of grace.Wonderfully out of the beautiful formSoared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;And is in its first home, there where it is.Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warmUpon his face, must have become so vileAs to be dead to all sweet sympathies.Out upon him! an abject wretch like thisMay not imagine anything of her,—He needs no bitter tears for his relief.But sighing comes, and grief,And the desire to find no comforter,(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief),To him who for a while turns in his thoughtHow she hath been among us, and is not.With sighs my bosom always labourethIn thinking, as I do continually,Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;And very often when I think of death,Such a great inward longing comes to meThat it will change the colour of my face;And, if the idea settles in its place,All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,I do become so shentThat I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.Afterward, calling with a sore lamentOn Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”And calling on her, I am comforted.Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,Come to me now whene’er I am alone;So that I think the sight of me gives pain.And what my life hath been, that living dies,Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun,I have not any language to explain.And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.All joy is with my bitter life at war;Yea, I am fallen so farThat all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,To the dames going and the damozelsFor whom and for none elseThy sisters have made music many a day.Thou, that art very sad and not as they,Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

The eyes that weep for pity of the heart

Have wept so long that their grief languisheth,

And they have no more tears to weep withal:

And now, if I would ease me of a part

Of what, little by little, leads to death,

It must be done by speech, or not at all.

And because often, thinking, I recall

How it was pleasant, ere she went afar,

To talk of her with you, kind damozels,

I talk with no one else,

But only with such hearts as women’s are.

And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,—

That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,

And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.

Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,The kingdom where the angels are at peace;And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.Not by the frost of winter was she drivenAway, like others; nor by summer-heats;But through a perfect gentleness, instead.For from the lamp of her meek lowliheadSuch an exceeding glory went up henceThat it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,Until a sweet desireEntered Him for that lovely excellence,So that He bade her to Himself aspire;Counting this weary and most evil placeUnworthy of a thing so full of grace.

Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,

The kingdom where the angels are at peace;

And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.

Not by the frost of winter was she driven

Away, like others; nor by summer-heats;

But through a perfect gentleness, instead.

For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead

Such an exceeding glory went up hence

That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,

Until a sweet desire

Entered Him for that lovely excellence,

So that He bade her to Himself aspire;

Counting this weary and most evil place

Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.

Wonderfully out of the beautiful formSoared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;And is in its first home, there where it is.Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warmUpon his face, must have become so vileAs to be dead to all sweet sympathies.Out upon him! an abject wretch like thisMay not imagine anything of her,—He needs no bitter tears for his relief.But sighing comes, and grief,And the desire to find no comforter,(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief),To him who for a while turns in his thoughtHow she hath been among us, and is not.

Wonderfully out of the beautiful form

Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while;

And is in its first home, there where it is.

Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm

Upon his face, must have become so vile

As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.

Out upon him! an abject wretch like this

May not imagine anything of her,—

He needs no bitter tears for his relief.

But sighing comes, and grief,

And the desire to find no comforter,

(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief),

To him who for a while turns in his thought

How she hath been among us, and is not.

With sighs my bosom always labourethIn thinking, as I do continually,Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;And very often when I think of death,Such a great inward longing comes to meThat it will change the colour of my face;And, if the idea settles in its place,All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,I do become so shentThat I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.Afterward, calling with a sore lamentOn Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”And calling on her, I am comforted.

With sighs my bosom always laboureth

In thinking, as I do continually,

Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace;

And very often when I think of death,

Such a great inward longing comes to me

That it will change the colour of my face;

And, if the idea settles in its place,

All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit:

Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,

I do become so shent

That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.

Afterward, calling with a sore lament

On Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?”

And calling on her, I am comforted.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,Come to me now whene’er I am alone;So that I think the sight of me gives pain.And what my life hath been, that living dies,Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun,I have not any language to explain.And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.All joy is with my bitter life at war;Yea, I am fallen so farThat all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,

Come to me now whene’er I am alone;

So that I think the sight of me gives pain.

And what my life hath been, that living dies,

Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun,

I have not any language to explain.

And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,

I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.

All joy is with my bitter life at war;

Yea, I am fallen so far

That all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”

Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.

But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,

Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.

Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,To the dames going and the damozelsFor whom and for none elseThy sisters have made music many a day.Thou, that art very sad and not as they,Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,

To the dames going and the damozels

For whom and for none else

Thy sisters have made music many a day.

Thou, that art very sad and not as they,

Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as herequired. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: “Stay now with me,” etc.

This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, “Mark how they force.”

Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs,Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.Mark how they force their way out and press through;If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.Seeing that now indeed my weary eyesOftener refuse than I can tell to you(Even though my endless grief is ever new),To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.Also in sighing ye shall hear me callOn her whose blessèd presence doth enrichThe only home that well befitteth her:And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of allSent from the inmost of my spirit in speechThat mourns its joy and its joy’s minister.

Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs,

Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.

Mark how they force their way out and press through;

If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.

Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes

Oftener refuse than I can tell to you

(Even though my endless grief is ever new),

To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.

Also in sighing ye shall hear me call

On her whose blessèd presence doth enrich

The only home that well befitteth her:

And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all

Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech

That mourns its joy and its joy’s minister.

But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless,looking closely, one must perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creaturehis lady, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them only for him.

The poem begins, “Whatever while,” and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, “For ever.” And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant.

Whatever while the thought comes over meThat I may not againBehold that lady whom I mourn for now,About my heart my mind brings constantlySo much of extreme painThat I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bowBeneath, until we win out of this life,Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth:So that I call on DeathEven as on Sleep one calleth after strife,Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grimAnd bare; and if one dies, I envy him.For ever, among all my sighs which burn,There is a piteous speechThat clamours upon death continually:Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turnSince first his hand did reachMy lady’s life with most foul cruelty.But from the height of woman’s fairness, she,Going up from us with the joy we had,Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;That so she spreads even thereA light of Love which makes the Angels glad,And even unto their subtle minds can bringA certain awe of profound marvelling.

Whatever while the thought comes over me

That I may not again

Behold that lady whom I mourn for now,

About my heart my mind brings constantly

So much of extreme pain

That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?

Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bow

Beneath, until we win out of this life,

Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth:

So that I call on Death

Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife,

Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim

And bare; and if one dies, I envy him.

For ever, among all my sighs which burn,There is a piteous speechThat clamours upon death continually:Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turnSince first his hand did reachMy lady’s life with most foul cruelty.But from the height of woman’s fairness, she,Going up from us with the joy we had,Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;That so she spreads even thereA light of Love which makes the Angels glad,And even unto their subtle minds can bringA certain awe of profound marvelling.

For ever, among all my sighs which burn,

There is a piteous speech

That clamours upon death continually:

Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn

Since first his hand did reach

My lady’s life with most foul cruelty.

But from the height of woman’s fairness, she,

Going up from us with the joy we had,

Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;

That so she spreads even there

A light of Love which makes the Angels glad,

And even unto their subtle minds can bring

A certain awe of profound marvelling.

On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said: “Another was with me.”[29]

Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels: in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, “That lady;” and as this sonnet hath two commencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of them here.

I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, “Love knowing;” the third here, “Forth went they.” This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, “And still.” In this samemanner is it divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in the other.

That lady of all gentle memoriesHad lighted on my soul;—whose new abodeLies now, as it was well ordained of God,Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.Love, knowing that dear image to be his,Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow’d,Unto the sighs which are its weary loadSaying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis;Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;With such a pang as oftentimes will batheMine eyes with tears when I am left alone.And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breathCame whispering thus: “O noble intellect!It is a year to-day that thou art gone.”

That lady of all gentle memories

Had lighted on my soul;—whose new abode

Lies now, as it was well ordained of God,

Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his,

Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow’d,

Unto the sighs which are its weary load

Saying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis;

Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;

With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe

Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.

And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath

Came whispering thus: “O noble intellect!

It is a year to-day that thou art gone.”

Second Commencement.

That lady of all gentle memoriesHad lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flow’dThe tears of Love; in whom the power abodeWhich led you to observe while I did this.Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.

That lady of all gentle memories

Had lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flow’d

The tears of Love; in whom the power abode

Which led you to observe while I did this.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.

Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in others, are then most moved unto weeping, asthough they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady; saying afterwards within myself: “Certainly with her also must abide most noble Love.” And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:—

Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity springInto thy countenance immediatelyA while agone, when thou beheldst in meThe sickness only hidden grief can bring;And then I knew thou wast consideringHow abject and forlorn my life must be;And I became afraid that thou shouldst seeMy weeping, and account it a base thing.Therefore I went out from thee; feeling howThe tears were straightway loosened at my heartBeneath thine eyes’ compassionate control.And afterwards I said within my soul:“Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpartOf the same Love who holds me weeping now.”

Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring

Into thy countenance immediately

A while agone, when thou beheldst in me

The sickness only hidden grief can bring;

And then I knew thou wast considering

How abject and forlorn my life must be;

And I became afraid that thou shouldst see

My weeping, and account it a base thing.

Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how

The tears were straightway loosened at my heart

Beneath thine eyes’ compassionate control.

And afterwards I said within my soul:

“Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart

Of the same Love who holds me weeping now.”

It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love; whereby she remembered me many times of my own most noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet: whichbegins, “Love’s pallor,” and which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid:—

Love’s pallor and the semblance of deep ruthWere never yet shown forth so perfectlyIn any lady’s face, chancing to seeGrief’s miserable countenance uncouth,As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me;Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee,My heart might almost wander from its truth.Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyesFrom gazing very often upon thineIn the sore hope to shed those tears they keep;And at such time, thou mak’st the pent tears riseEven to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine;Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.

Love’s pallor and the semblance of deep ruth

Were never yet shown forth so perfectly

In any lady’s face, chancing to see

Grief’s miserable countenance uncouth,

As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,

When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me;

Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee,

My heart might almost wander from its truth.

Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes

From gazing very often upon thine

In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep;

And at such time, thou mak’st the pent tears rise

Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine;

Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.

At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mineeyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly: “Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady looketh upon you? who so looketh merely in compassion of the grief ye then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed eyes! many a time will I make you remember it! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping.” And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this horriblecondition. And I wrote this which begins, “The very bitter weeping.”

The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and this part begins here, “So far.” It well might receive other divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition.

“The very bitter weeping that ye madeSo long a time together, eyes of mine,Was wont to make the tears of pity shineIn other eyes full oft, as I have said.But now this thing were scarce rememberèdIf I, on my part, foully would combineWith you, and not recall each ancient signOf grief, and her for whom your tears were shedIt is your fickleness that doth betrayMy mind to fears, and makes me tremble thusWhat while a lady greets me with her eyes.Except by death, we must not any wayForget our lady who is gone from us.”So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.

“The very bitter weeping that ye made

So long a time together, eyes of mine,

Was wont to make the tears of pity shine

In other eyes full oft, as I have said.

But now this thing were scarce rememberèd

If I, on my part, foully would combine

With you, and not recall each ancient sign

Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed

It is your fickleness that doth betray

My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus

What while a lady greets me with her eyes.

Except by death, we must not any way

Forget our lady who is gone from us.”

So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.

The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: “This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise; perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace.” And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: “What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all otherimagining?” Also there was another voice within me, that said: “And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayst from so much bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity.” Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself, bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it spoke of one who was gentle; being of itself most vile.[30]

In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts were divided, one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is, appetite; the other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to remember mymost gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appetite towards her, but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins here, “And what is this?” the third here, “And the heart answers.”

A gentle thought there is will often start,Within my secret self, to speech of thee:Also of Love it speaks so tenderlyThat much in me consents and takes its part.“And what is this,” the soul saith to the heart,“That cometh thus to comfort thee and me,And thence where it would dwell, thus potentlyCan drive all other thoughts by its strange art?”And the heart answers: “Be no more at strife’Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love’s messengerAnd speaketh but his words, from him received;And all the strength it owns and all the lifeIt draweth from the gentle eyes of herWho, looking on our grief, hath often grieved.”

A gentle thought there is will often start,

Within my secret self, to speech of thee:

Also of Love it speaks so tenderly

That much in me consents and takes its part.

“And what is this,” the soul saith to the heart,

“That cometh thus to comfort thee and me,

And thence where it would dwell, thus potently

Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?”

And the heart answers: “Be no more at strife

’Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love’s messenger

And speaketh but his words, from him received;

And all the strength it owns and all the life

It draweth from the gentle eyes of her

Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved.”

But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my memory ran back, according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so baselylet itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.

And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom: neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring themto shame and evil: from which things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, “Woe’s me!”

I said, “Woe’s me!” because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough.

Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that comeForth of my heart, its endless grief to prove,Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to moveTheir lids for greeting is grown troublesome.They wept so long that now they are grief’s home,And count their tears all laughter far above:They wept till they are circled now by LoveWith a red circle in sign of martyrdom.These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,Are grown at last so constant and so soreThat love swoons in my spirit with faint breath;Hearing in those sad sounds continuallyThe most sweet name that my dead lady bore,With many grievous words touching her death.

Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that come

Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove,

Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move

Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome.

They wept so long that now they are grief’s home,

And count their tears all laughter far above:

They wept till they are circled now by Love

With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.

These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,

Are grown at last so constant and so sore

That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath;

Hearing in those sad sounds continually

The most sweet name that my dead lady bore,

With many grievous words touching her death.

About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance,[31](upon which countenance my dear lady now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful,passed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.

Then I, beholding them, said within myself: “These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.” And I went on to say: “I know that if they were of a country near untous, they would in some wise seem disturbed, passing through this city which is so full of grief.” And I said also: “If I could speak with them a space, I am certain that I should make them weep before they went forth of this city; for those things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any.”

And when the last of them had gone by me, I bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: “Ye pilgrim-folk.” I made use of the wordpilgrimfor its general signification; for “pilgrim” may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowardsthe House of St. James. For there are three separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory of God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward, whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no other apostle was buried so far from his birthplace as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers; in that they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.

This sonnet is not divided, because its own words sufficiently declare it.

Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensivelyAs if in thought of distant things, I pray,Is your own land indeed so far away—As by your aspect it would seem to be—That this our heavy sorrow leaves you freeThough passing through the mournful town midway;Like unto men that understand to-dayNothing at all of her great misery?Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,And listen to my words a little space,At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;Of whom the least word spoken holds such graceThat men weep hearing it, and have no choice.

Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively

As if in thought of distant things, I pray,

Is your own land indeed so far away—

As by your aspect it would seem to be—

That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free

Though passing through the mournful town midway;

Like unto men that understand to-day

Nothing at all of her great misery?

Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,

And listen to my words a little space,

At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.

It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;

Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace

That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.

A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration) resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled.Therefore I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be conveyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and with that other which begins, “Stay now with me and listen to my sighs.” And the new sonnet is, “Beyond the sphere.”

This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a “Pilgrim Spirit,” because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eyeweak against the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there whither my thought carries me—that is, to her admirable essence—I at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, “Ladies mine,” to show that they are ladies to whom I speak. The second part begins, “A new perception;” the third, “When it hath reached;” the fourth, “It sees her such;” the fifth, “And yet I know.” It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this division may pass, and therefore I stay not to divide it further.

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest spaceNow soars the sigh that my heart sends above:A new perception born of grieving LoveGuideth it upward the untrodden ways.When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,It sees a lady round whom splendours moveIn homage; till, by the great light thereofAbashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.It sees her such, that when it tells me thisWhich it hath seen, I understand it not,It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.And yet I know its voice within my thoughtOften remembereth me of Beatrice:So that I understand it, ladies mine.

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space

Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above:

A new perception born of grieving Love

Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.

When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,

It sees a lady round whom splendours move

In homage; till, by the great light thereof

Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.

It sees her such, that when it tells me this

Which it hath seen, I understand it not,

It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.

And yet I know its voice within my thought

Often remembereth me of Beatrice:

So that I understand it, ladies mine.

After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision:[32]wherein I sawthings which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I labour all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenancequi est per omnia sæcula benedictus.[33]Laus Deo.

THE END.

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