The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Purgatory: Canto XXVIII

Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade     With lively greenness the new-springing day     Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search     Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank,     Along the champain leisurely my way     Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides     Delicious odour breath'd. A pleasant air,     That intermitted never, never veer'd,     Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind     Of softest influence: at which the sprays,     Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part     Where first the holy mountain casts his shade,     Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still     Upon their top the feather'd quiristers     Applied their wonted art, and with full joy     Welcom'd those hours of prime, and warbled shrill     Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays     inept tenor; even as from branch to branch,     Along the piney forests on the shore     Of Chiassi, rolls the gath'ring melody,     When Eolus hath from his cavern loos'd     The dripping south. Already had my steps,     Though slow, so far into that ancient wood     Transported me, I could not ken the place     Where I had enter'd, when behold! my path     Was bounded by a rill, which to the left     With little rippling waters bent the grass,     That issued from its brink. On earth no wave     How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have     Some mixture in itself, compar'd with this,     Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll'd,     Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er     Admits or sun or moon light there to shine.     My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyes     Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey     The tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue,     In prodigal variety: and there,     As object, rising suddenly to view,     That from our bosom every thought beside     With the rare marvel chases, I beheld     A lady all alone, who, singing, went,     And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way     Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful!     Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,     Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beam     Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd:     "Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend     Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song.     Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,     I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd     Proserpine, in that season, when her child     The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring."     As when a lady, turning in the dance,     Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce     One step before the other to the ground;     Over the yellow and vermilion flowers     Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like,     Valing her sober eyes, and came so near,     That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.     Arriving where the limped waters now     Lav'd the green sward, her eyes she deign'd to raise,     That shot such splendour on me, as I ween     Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son     Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart.     Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil'd     through her graceful fingers shifted still     The intermingling dyes, which without seed     That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream     Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet     The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er,     (A curb for ever to the pride of man)     Was by Leander not more hateful held     For floating, with inhospitable wave     'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me     That flood, because it gave no passage thence.     "Strangers ye come, and haply in this place,     That cradled human nature in its birth,     Wond'ring, ye not without suspicion view     My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,     'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,' will give ye light,     Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st     The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me,     Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I     Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine."     She spake; and I replied: "I know not how     To reconcile this wave and rustling sound     Of forest leaves, with what I late have heard     Of opposite report." She answering thus:     "I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds,     Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloud     That hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joy     Is only in himself, created man     For happiness, and gave this goodly place,     His pledge and earnest of eternal peace.     Favour'd thus highly, through his own defect     He fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell,     And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang'd     Laughter unblam'd and ever-new delight.     That vapours none, exhal'd from earth beneath,     Or from the waters (which, wherever heat     Attracts them, follow), might ascend thus far     To vex man's peaceful state, this mountain rose     So high toward the heav'n, nor fears the rage     Of elements contending, from that part     Exempted, where the gate his limit bars.     Because the circumambient air throughout     With its first impulse circles still, unless     Aught interpose to cheek or thwart its course;     Upon the summit, which on every side     To visitation of th' impassive air     Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes     Beneath its sway th' umbrageous wood resound:     And in the shaken plant such power resides,     That it impregnates with its efficacy     The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume     That wafted flies abroad; and th' other land     Receiving (as 't is worthy in itself,     Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive,     And from its womb produces many a tree     Of various virtue. This when thou hast heard,     The marvel ceases, if in yonder earth     Some plant without apparent seed be found     To fix its fibrous stem. And further learn,     That with prolific foison of all seeds,     This holy plain is fill'd, and in itself     Bears fruit that ne'er was pluck'd on other soil.     "The water, thou behold'st, springs not from vein,     As stream, that intermittently repairs     And spends his pulse of life, but issues forth     From fountain, solid, undecaying, sure;     And by the will omnific, full supply     Feeds whatsoe'er On either side it pours;     On this devolv'd with power to take away     Remembrance of offence, on that to bring     Remembrance back of every good deed done.     From whence its name of Lethe on this part;     On th' other Eunoe: both of which must first     Be tasted ere it work; the last exceeding     All flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may now     Be well contented, if I here break off,     No more revealing: yet a corollary     I freely give beside: nor deem my words     Less grateful to thee, if they somewhat pass     The stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yore     The golden age recorded and its bliss,     On the Parnassian mountain, of this place     Perhaps had dream'd. Here was man guiltless, here     Perpetual spring and every fruit, and this     The far-fam'd nectar." Turning to the bards,     When she had ceas'd, I noted in their looks     A smile at her conclusion; then my face     Again directed to the lovely dame.