Canto XXVII

The sun stood poised where its Creator once shed blood,

the Ebro flowing beneath towering Libra's scales,

the Ganges burning under noon's fierce light—

and here the day was ending

when God's radiant angel appeared before us.

He stood beyond the flame's edge on the precipice,

chanting "Blessed are the pure in heart"

in a voice more vibrant than any mortal sound.

Then spoke: "No soul goes farther, sanctified ones,

unless the fire first bites you—enter within,

and do not turn deaf ears to the song beyond."

When I heard this, I became like one

lowered into the grave.

I straightened myself, hands clasped tight,

staring at the fire, my mind flooding

with vivid memories of human bodies

I had seen consumed by flame.

My faithful guides turned toward me,

and Virgil said: "My son,

here there may be torment, but not death.

Remember—remember! If I guided you

safely on Geryon's back,

what will I do now that we stand closer to God?

Believe this: even if you stood

a thousand years within this flame's embrace,

it could not singe a single hair.

If you think I'm deceiving you,

go near it—test it with your hands

upon your garment's edge.

Set aside all fear now,

turn toward me and come forward safely."

But I remained motionless, fighting my conscience.

Seeing me stand stubborn and unmoved,

disturbed, he said: "Look here, son—

between you and Beatrice stands this wall."

As dying Pyramus opened his eyes

at Thisbe's name and gazed upon her

while the mulberry turned crimson,

so my stubbornness melted away

when I heard that name

forever welling in my memory.

He shook his head and smiled:

"What now? Shall we stay on this side?"—

like someone amused by a child

conquered by an apple's temptation.

Then he entered the fire ahead of me,

asking Statius to follow behind,

who had walked between us all this way.

Once inside, I would have thrown myself

into molten glass for relief—

so immeasurable was the burning.

But my sweet father encouraged me,

speaking still of Beatrice:

"I can almost see her eyes already."

A voice singing on the far side

guided us, and we, listening only

to that sound, emerged where the ascent began.

"Come, blessed of my Father"

rang out from within such brilliance

that it overcame me—I could not look.

"The sun departs and night approaches," it added.

"Do not linger, but press onward

while the west has not yet darkened."

The path climbed straight through rock

so that I blocked the rays

of the now-lowering sun before me.

We had tried only a few steps

when we saw the sun setting

behind us by our vanished shadows.

Before the boundless horizon

became uniform in every direction

and Night claimed her infinite dominion,

each of us had made his bed upon a stair—

the mountain's nature stole from us

the power to climb, though not the desire.

Like goats who browsed swift and bold

on the peaks before they fed,

now quiet in the shade while sun blazes,

watched by their shepherd leaning on his staff,

tending them as he leans—

or like the herdsman sleeping outdoors,

spending night beside his peaceful flock,

guarding against wild beasts that might scatter them—

such were we three at that hour:

I like the goat, they like shepherds,

hemmed in on both sides by stone.

Little of the outer world could be seen,

but through that little I beheld stars

more luminous and large than usual.

Contemplating and watching these,

sleep seized me—sleep that often knows

the future before deeds are done.

At the hour when Venus first beams

from the East upon the mountain,

she who seems always burning with love's fire,

I dreamed I saw a young and beautiful lady

walking in a meadow, gathering flowers,

and as she sang, she said:

"Let anyone who asks my name know

that I am Leah, and I move about

weaving garlands with my lovely hands.

I adorn myself here to please me at the mirror,

but my sister Rachel never leaves

her looking glass and sits there all day long.

She yearns to see her beautiful eyes

as much as I long to adorn myself with flowers—

her seeing and my doing satisfy us both."

Now before dawn's first light—

more welcome to pilgrims

as they lodge closer to home on their return—

darkness fled from every side

and sleep with it. I rose,

seeing the great masters already standing.

"That sweet fruit which mortal care

seeks through so many branches

will today satisfy your hunger."

Virgil spoke such words to me,

and no gift could ever match

the pleasure these brought.

Such longing built upon longing came over me

to reach the heights that with each step after

I felt wings growing within me for flight.

When the entire stairway lay beneath us

and we stood on the topmost step,

Virgil fixed his eyes upon me and said:

"My son, you have seen temporal fire and eternal fire,

and have come to a place where I myself

can discern no farther.

I have brought you here by intellect and art—

now take your own will as your guide.

You are beyond the steep and narrow ways.

See the sun shining on your forehead,

see the grass, flowers, and shrubs

this land produces by itself alone.

Until those beautiful eyes arrive rejoicing—

the same that weeping sent me to you—

you may sit and walk among them.

Expect no more word or sign from me.

Your will is free, upright, and whole,

and it would be wrong not to follow its guidance.

Over yourself I therefore crown and consecrate you."