Looking into his Son with all the Love Which each of them eternally breathes forth, The Primal and unutterable Power Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves With so much order made, there can be none Who this beholds without enjoying Him.
Lift up then, Reader, to the lofty wheels With me thy vision straight unto that part Where the one motion on the other strikes, And there begin to contemplate with joy That Master's art, who in himself so loves it That never doth his eye depart therefrom.
Behold how from that point goes branching off The oblique circle, which conveys the planets, To satisfy the world that calls upon them;
And if their pathway were not thus inflected, Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain, And almost every power below here dead.
If from the straight line distant more or less Were the departure, much would wanting be Above and underneath of mundane order.
Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench, In thought pursuing that which is foretasted, If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary.
I've set before thee; henceforth feed thyself, For to itself diverteth all my care That theme whereof I have been made the scribe.
The greatest of the ministers of nature, Who with the power of heaven the world imprints And measures with his light the time for us, With that part which above is called to mind Conjoined, along the spirals was revolving, Where each time earlier he presents himself;
And I was with him; but of the ascending I was not conscious, saving as a man Of a first thought is conscious ere it come;
And Beatrice, she who is seen to pass From good to better, and so suddenly That not by time her action is expressed, How lucent in herself must she have been!
And what was in the sun, wherein I entered, Apparent not by colour but by light, I, though I call on genius, art, and practice, Cannot so tell that it could be imagined;
Believe one can, and let him long to see it.
And if our fantasies too lowly are For altitude so great, it is no marvel, Since o'er the sun was never eye could go.
Such in this place was the fourth family Of the high Father, who forever sates it, Showing how he breathes forth and how begets.
And Beatrice began: "Give thanks, give thanks Unto the Sun of Angels, who to this Sensible one has raised thee by his grace!"
Never was heart of mortal so disposed To worship, nor to give itself to God With all its gratitude was it so ready, As at those words did I myself become;
And all my love was so absorbed in Him, That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed.
Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at it So that the splendour of her laughing eyes My single mind on many things divided.
Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant, Make us a centre and themselves a circle, More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect.
Thus girt about the daughter of Latona We sometimes see, when pregnant is the air, So that it holds the thread which makes her zone.
Within the court of Heaven, whence I return, Are many jewels found, so fair and precious They cannot be transported from the realm;
And of them was the singing of those lights.
