So shall delight make thee not feel thy toil. 
Lo!  I have set before thee, for thyself
Feed now:  the matter I indite, henceforth
Demands entire my thought.  Join’d with the part,
Which late we told of, the great minister
Of nature, that upon the world imprints
The virtue of the heaven, and doles out
Time for us with his beam, went circling on
Along the spires, where each hour sooner comes;
And I was with him, weetless of ascent,
As one, who till arriv’d, weets not his coming. 
     For Beatrice, she who passeth on
So suddenly from good to better, time
Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs
Have been her brightness!  What she was i’ th’ sun
(Where I had enter’d), not through change of hue,
But light transparent—­did I summon up
Genius, art, practice—­I might not so speak,
It should be e’er imagin’d:  yet believ’d
It may be, and the sight be justly crav’d. 
And if our fantasy fail of such height,
What marvel, since no eye above the sun
Hath ever travel’d?  Such are they dwell here,
Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire,
Who of his spirit and of his offspring shows;
And holds them still enraptur’d with the view. 
And thus to me Beatrice:  “Thank, oh thank,
The Sun of angels, him, who by his grace
To this perceptible hath lifted thee.” 
     Never was heart in such devotion bound,
And with complacency so absolute
Dispos’d to render up itself to God,
As mine was at those words:  and so entire
The love for Him, that held me, it eclips’d
Beatrice in oblivion.  Naught displeas’d
Was she, but smil’d thereat so joyously,
That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake
And scatter’d my collected mind abroad. 
     Then saw I a bright band, in liveliness
Surpassing, who themselves did make the crown,
And us their centre:  yet more sweet in voice,
Than in their visage beaming.  Cinctur’d thus,
Sometime Latona’s daughter we behold,
When the impregnate air retains the thread,
That weaves her zone.  In the celestial court,
Whence I return, are many jewels found,
So dear and beautiful, they cannot brook
Transporting from that realm:  and of these lights
Such was the song.  Who doth not prune his wing
To soar up thither, let him look from thence
For tidings from the dumb.  When, singing thus,
Those burning suns that circled round us thrice,
As nearest stars around the fixed pole,
Then seem’d they like to ladies, from the dance
Not ceasing, but suspense, in silent pause,
List’ning, till they have caught the strain anew: 
Suspended so they stood:  and, from within,
Thus heard I one, who spake:  “Since with its beam
The grace, whence true love lighteth first his flame,
That after doth increase by loving, shines
So multiplied in thee, it leads thee up
Along this ladder, down whose hallow’d steps
None e’er descend, and mount them not again,