And there on mine:  where every aim is found
Perfect, entire, and for fulfillment ripe. 
There all things are as they have ever been: 
For space is none to bound, nor pole divides,
Our ladder reaches even to that clime,
And so at giddy distance mocks thy view. 
Thither the Patriarch Jacob saw it stretch
Its topmost round, when it appear’d to him
With angels laden.  But to mount it now
None lifts his foot from earth:  and hence my rule
Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves;
The walls, for abbey rear’d, turned into dens,
The cowls to sacks choak’d up with musty meal. 
Foul usury doth not more lift itself
Against God’s pleasure, than that fruit which makes
The hearts of monks so wanton:  for whate’er
Is in the church’s keeping, all pertains. 
To such, as sue for heav’n’s sweet sake, and not
To those who in respect of kindred claim,
Or on more vile allowance.  Mortal flesh
Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not
From the oak’s birth, unto the acorn’s setting. 
His convent Peter founded without gold
Or silver; I with pray’rs and fasting mine;
And Francis his in meek humility. 
And if thou note the point, whence each proceeds,
Then look what it hath err’d to, thou shalt find
The white grown murky.  Jordan was turn’d back;
And a less wonder, then the refluent sea,
May at God’s pleasure work amendment here.” 
     So saying, to his assembly back he drew: 
And they together cluster’d into one,
Then all roll’d upward like an eddying wind. 
     The sweet dame beckon’d me to follow them: 
And, by that influence only, so prevail’d
Over my nature, that no natural motion,
Ascending or descending here below,
Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. 
     So, reader, as my hope is to return
Unto the holy triumph, for the which
I ofttimes wail my sins, and smite my breast,
Thou hadst been longer drawing out and thrusting
Thy finger in the fire, than I was, ere
The sign, that followeth Taurus, I beheld,
And enter’d its precinct.  O glorious stars! 
O light impregnate with exceeding virtue! 
To whom whate’er of genius lifteth me
Above the vulgar, grateful I refer;
With ye the parent of all mortal life
Arose and set, when I did first inhale
The Tuscan air; and afterward, when grace
Vouchsaf’d me entrance to the lofty wheel
That in its orb impels ye, fate decreed
My passage at your clime.  To you my soul
Devoutly sighs, for virtue even now
To meet the hard emprize that draws me on. 
     “Thou art so near the sum of blessedness,”
Said Beatrice, “that behooves thy ken
Be vigilant and clear.  And, to this end,
Or even thou advance thee further, hence
Look downward, and contemplate, what a world
Already stretched under our feet there lies: 
So as thy heart may, in its blithest mood,
Present itself to the triumphal throng,