E’en so was heav’n a niggard unto these
Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all,
A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up,
As for the taming of a haggard hawk. 
     It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look
On others, yet myself the while unseen. 
To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. 
He knew the meaning of the mute appeal,
Nor waited for my questioning, but said: 
“Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words.” 
     On that part of the cornice, whence no rim
Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come;
On the’ other side me were the spirits, their cheeks
Bathing devout with penitential tears,
That through the dread impalement forc’d a way. 
     I turn’d me to them, and “O shades!” said I,
     “Assur’d that to your eyes unveil’d shall shine
The lofty light, sole object of your wish,
So may heaven’s grace clear whatsoe’er of foam
Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth
The stream of mind roll limpid from its source,
As ye declare (for so shall ye impart
A boon I dearly prize) if any soul
Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance
That soul may profit, if I learn so much.” 
     “My brother, we are each one citizens
Of one true city.  Any thou wouldst say,
Who lived a stranger in Italia’s land.” 
     So heard I answering, as appeal’d, a voice
That onward came some space from whence I stood. 
     A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark’d
Expectance.  Ask ye how?  The chin was rais’d
As in one reft of sight.  “Spirit,” said I,
“Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be
That which didst answer to me,) or by place
Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee.” 
     “I was,” it answer’d, “of Sienna:  here
I cleanse away with these the evil life,
Soliciting with tears that He, who is,
Vouchsafe him to us.  Though Sapia nam’d
In sapience I excell’d not, gladder far
Of others’ hurt, than of the good befell me. 
That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not,
Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. 
When now my years slop’d waning down the arch,
It so bechanc’d, my fellow citizens
Near Colle met their enemies in the field,
And I pray’d God to grant what He had will’d. 
There were they vanquish’d, and betook themselves
Unto the bitter passages of flight. 
I mark’d the hunt, and waxing out of bounds
In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow,
And like the merlin cheated by a gleam,
Cried, “It is over.  Heav’n!  I fear thee not.” 
Upon my verge of life I wish’d for peace
With God; nor repentance had supplied
What I did lack of duty, were it not
The hermit Piero, touch’d with charity,
In his devout orisons thought on me. 
But who art thou that question’st of our state,
Who go’st to my belief, with lids unclos’d,
And breathest in thy talk?” —­“Mine eyes,” said I,
“May yet be here ta’en from me; but not