Who from his phial should refuse thee wine
To slake thy thirst, no less constrained were,
Than water flowing not unto the sea. 
Thou fain wouldst hear, what plants are these, that bloom
In the bright garland, which, admiring, girds
This fair dame round, who strengthens thee for heav’n. 
I then was of the lambs, that Dominic
Leads, for his saintly flock, along the way,
Where well they thrive, not sworn with vanity. 
He, nearest on my right hand, brother was,
And master to me:  Albert of Cologne
Is this:  and of Aquinum, Thomas I.
If thou of all the rest wouldst be assur’d,
Let thine eye, waiting on the words I speak,
In circuit journey round the blessed wreath. 
That next resplendence issues from the smile
Of Gratian, who to either forum lent
Such help, as favour wins in Paradise. 
The other, nearest, who adorns our quire,
Was Peter, he that with the widow gave
To holy church his treasure.  The fifth light,
Goodliest of all, is by such love inspired,
That all your world craves tidings of its doom: 
Within, there is the lofty light, endow’d
With sapience so profound, if truth be truth,
That with a ken of such wide amplitude
No second hath arisen.  Next behold
That taper’s radiance, to whose view was shown,
Clearliest, the nature and the ministry
Angelical, while yet in flesh it dwelt. 
In the other little light serenely smiles
That pleader for the Christian temples, he
Who did provide Augustin of his lore. 
Now, if thy mind’s eye pass from light to light,
Upon my praises following, of the eighth
Thy thirst is next.  The saintly soul, that shows
The world’s deceitfulness, to all who hear him,
Is, with the sight of all the good, that is,
Blest there.  The limbs, whence it was driven, lie
Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom
And exile came it here.  Lo! further on,
Where flames the arduous Spirit of Isidore,
Of Bede, and Richard, more than man, erewhile,
In deep discernment.  Lastly this, from whom
Thy look on me reverteth, was the beam
Of one, whose spirit, on high musings bent,
Rebuk’d the ling’ring tardiness of death. 
It is the eternal light of Sigebert,
Who ’scap’d not envy, when of truth he argued,
Reading in the straw-litter’d street.”  Forthwith,
As clock, that calleth up the spouse of God
To win her bridegroom’s love at matin’s hour,
Each part of other fitly drawn and urg’d,
Sends out a tinkling sound, of note so sweet,
Affection springs in well-disposed breast;
Thus saw I move the glorious wheel, thus heard
Voice answ’ring voice, so musical and soft,
It can be known but where day endless shines.

CANTO XI