Canto XXXI

**The Glory of Paradise. Beatrice Departs. Saint Bernard Appears.**

In form, then, of a pure white rose

the sacred host appeared to me—

those whom Christ made his bride with his own blood.

But the other host, which sees and sings

the glory of the One who fills them with love,

and the goodness that made them so noble,

like a swarm of bees that one moment

settles on the flowers, and the next

returns to where their work grows sweet,

descended into the great flower

adorned with so many petals,

then rose again to where their love dwells always.

Their faces were all living flame,

their wings were gold, and the rest of them

so white that no snow could match it.

When they descended into the flower,

from tier to tier they shared

the peace and fervor they had gained with their wings.

Like a snow-white rose unfolding,

the blessed host displayed itself before me—

those whom Christ claimed as his bride with his own blood.

But the other host, which flies and sings

the glory of the One who fills them with love,

and the goodness that made them so noble,

moved like a swarm of bees

that plunges into flowers one moment

and returns the next to where their work

transforms into sweetness.

They descended into that great flower

adorned with countless petals,

then rose again to where their love

dwells forever.

Their faces were all living flame,

their wings pure gold,

and all the rest so white

that snow could never match that brightness.

From tier to tier, descending through the flower,

they carried something of the peace and fire

they won by beating their golden wings.

Nor did this abundance of flying forms

between the flower and what lay above

block the sight or dim the splendor—

for divine light penetrates the universe

according to each thing's worthiness,

and nothing can obstruct it.

This realm, secure and filled with joy,

crowded with souls ancient and modern,

turned all its gaze and love toward one goal.

O Trinity of Light, you who sparkle

in a single star upon their sight

and satisfy them completely—

look down upon our storm below!

If barbarians coming from some northern land

where Helice circles daily

with her son she delights in,

were struck with wonder seeing Rome

and all her noble works,

when the Lateran towered

above all mortal things—

then I, who had come from human to divine,

from time to eternity,

from Florence to a people just and whole,

with what amazement must I have been filled!

Truly, between this wonder and the joy,

I wanted neither to hear nor speak.

Like a pilgrim who delights

in gazing around the temple of his vow

and hopes someday to tell others how it was,

so I directed my eyes through the living light

over all the ranks—

now up, now down, now all around.

I saw faces glowing with love,

beautified by His light and their own smiles,

and gestures graced with every virtue.

Already my glance had taken in

the general form of Paradise as a whole,

lingering on no single part,

and I turned with renewed desire

to question my Lady about things

that held my mind in suspense.

I expected one thing, but another answered me.

I thought I would see Beatrice,

but instead saw an old man

dressed like the other glorious souls.

His eyes and cheeks overflowed

with gentle joy, his bearing

kind as a tender father's.

"Where is she?" I said at once.

"To fulfill your longing," he replied,

"Beatrice sent me from my place.

If you look up to the third circle

of the highest tier, you will see her again

upon the throne her merits have earned."

Without answering, I lifted my eyes

and saw her as she made herself a crown,

reflecting the eternal rays.

No mortal eye is ever so far removed

from the highest thunder clouds,

however deep it sinks beneath the sea,

as my sight was then from Beatrice.

But this meant nothing to me,

for her image came down to me

undimmed by any barrier.

"O Lady, in whom my hope is strong,

who for my salvation endured

leaving your footprints in Hell—

of all the things I have seen,

I recognize the power and grace

as coming from your goodness.

You have brought me from slavery to freedom

by every path, every means

by which you had the power to do it.

Keep showing me your magnificence,

so that my soul, which you have healed,

may be released from the body

in a way that pleases you."

So I prayed. And she, so far away,

seemed to smile and looked at me once more,

then turned toward the eternal fountain.

The holy old man said: "So that you may

complete your journey perfectly—

the purpose for which prayer and holy love sent me—

let your eyes fly around this garden,

for seeing it will prepare your sight

to climb higher along the divine ray.

And she, the Queen of Heaven,

for whom I burn completely with love,

will grant us every grace,

because I am her faithful Bernard."

Like someone who perhaps comes from Croatia

to gaze upon our Veronica,

never satisfied by its ancient fame,

but thinks while it is displayed,

"My Lord Jesus Christ, true God,

was your face really like this?"—

so was I, gazing at the living love

of the man who in this world,

through contemplation, tasted that peace.

"Son of grace," he began,

"you will not know this joyful life

by keeping your eyes fixed down here

at the bottom.

Look at the circles, even the most distant,

until you see the Queen enthroned

to whom this realm is subject and devoted."

I raised my eyes, and as at dawn

the eastern horizon

surpasses the western where the sun sets,

so, as if my eyes climbed from valley to mountain,

I saw one part in the distance

outshine all the rest in splendor.

And just as we see the place

where Phaeton drove so badly

blaze brightest at the center

and fade on either side,

so that peaceful banner of light

gleamed most brightly in the middle,

diminishing equally on each side.

At that center, with wings spread wide,

I saw more than a thousand rejoicing angels,

each different in radiance and nature.

I saw there, in their dancing and singing,

a beauty smiling—the very joy

that filled the eyes of all the other saints.

And even if I had as much skill in words

as I have in imagination,

I would not dare attempt to describe

the smallest part of that delight.

Bernard, seeing my eyes

fixed and intent on that burning love,

turned his own to her

with such devotion

that it made mine burn even brighter to see.