While singly thus along the rim we walk’d,
Oft the good master warn’d me:  “Look thou well. 
Avail it that I caution thee.”  The sun
Now all the western clime irradiate chang’d
From azure tinct to white; and, as I pass’d,
My passing shadow made the umber’d flame
Burn ruddier.  At so strange a sight I mark’d
That many a spirit marvel’d on his way. 
     This bred occasion first to speak of me,
“He seems,” said they, “no insubstantial frame:” 
Then to obtain what certainty they might,
Stretch’d towards me, careful not to overpass
The burning pale.  “O thou, who followest
The others, haply not more slow than they,
But mov’d by rev’rence, answer me, who burn
In thirst and fire:  nor I alone, but these
All for thine answer do more thirst, than doth
Indian or Aethiop for the cooling stream. 
Tell us, how is it that thou mak’st thyself
A wall against the sun, as thou not yet
Into th’ inextricable toils of death
Hadst enter’d?” Thus spake one, and I had straight
Declar’d me, if attention had not turn’d
To new appearance.  Meeting these, there came,
Midway the burning path, a crowd, on whom
Earnestly gazing, from each part I view
The shadows all press forward, sev’rally
Each snatch a hasty kiss, and then away. 
E’en so the emmets, ’mid their dusky troops,
Peer closely one at other, to spy out
Their mutual road perchance, and how they thrive. 
     That friendly greeting parted, ere dispatch
Of the first onward step, from either tribe
Loud clamour rises:  those, who newly come,
Shout Sodom and Gomorrah!” these, “The cow
Pasiphae enter’d, that the beast she woo’d
Might rush unto her luxury.”  Then as cranes,
That part towards the Riphaean mountains fly,
Part towards the Lybic sands, these to avoid
The ice, and those the sun; so hasteth off
One crowd, advances th’ other; and resume
Their first song weeping, and their several shout. 
     Again drew near my side the very same,
Who had erewhile besought me, and their looks
Mark’d eagerness to listen.  I, who twice
Their will had noted, spake:  “O spirits secure,
Whene’er the time may be, of peaceful end! 
My limbs, nor crude, nor in mature old age,
Have I left yonder:  here they bear me, fed
With blood, and sinew-strung.  That I no more
May live in blindness, hence I tend aloft. 
There is a dame on high, who wind for us
This grace, by which my mortal through your realm
I bear.  But may your utmost wish soon meet
Such full fruition, that the orb of heaven,
Fullest of love, and of most ample space,
Receive you, as ye tell (upon my page
Henceforth to stand recorded) who ye are,
And what this multitude, that at your backs
Have past behind us.”  As one, mountain-bred,
Rugged and clownish, if some city’s walls
He chance to enter, round him stares agape,
Confounded and struck dumb; e’en such appear’d