The Terrestrial Paradise. From Dante, Purgatorio, XXVIII.

Longing already to search in and round     The heavenly forest, dense and living green,     Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,     Withouten more delay I left the bank,     Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,     Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.     A gently-breathing air, that no mutation     Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,     No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,     Whereat the tremulous branches readily     Did all of them bow downward towards that side     Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;     Yet not from their upright direction bent     So that the little birds upon their tops     Should cease the practice of their tuneful art;     But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime     Singing received they in the midst of foliage     That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,     Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,     Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,     When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco.     Already my slow steps had led me on     Into the ancient wood so far, that I     Could see no more the place where I had entered.     And lo! my farther course cut off a river,     Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,     Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.     All waters that on earth most limpid are,     Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,     Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,     Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,     Under the shade perpetual, that never     Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.