Appeared before me with its wings outspread The beautiful image that in sweet fruition Made jubilant the interwoven souls;

Appeared a little ruby each, wherein Ray of the sun was burning so enkindled That each into mine eyes refracted it.

And what it now behoves me to retrace Nor voice has e'er reported, nor ink written, Nor was by fantasy e'er comprehended;

For speak I saw, and likewise heard, the beak, And utter with its voice both 'I' and 'My,'

When in conception it was 'We' and 'Our.'

And it began: "Being just and merciful Am I exalted here unto that glory Which cannot be exceeded by desire;

And upon earth I left my memory Such, that the evil-minded people there Commend it, but continue not the story."

So doth a single heat from many embers Make itself felt, even as from many loves Issued a single sound from out that image.

Whence I thereafter: "O perpetual flowers Of the eternal joy, that only one Make me perceive your odours manifold, Exhaling, break within me the great fast Which a long season has in hunger held me, Not finding for it any food on earth.

Well do I know, that if in heaven its mirror Justice Divine another realm doth make, Yours apprehends it not through any veil.

You know how I attentively address me To listen; and you know what is the doubt That is in me so very old a fast."

Even as a falcon, issuing from his hood, Doth move his head, and with his wings applaud him, Showing desire, and making himself fine, Saw I become that standard, which of lauds Was interwoven of the grace divine, With such songs as he knows who there rejoices.

Then it began: "He who a compass turned On the world's outer verge, and who within it Devised so much occult and manifest, Could not the impress of his power so make On all the universe, as that his Word Should not remain in infinite excess.

And this makes certain that the first proud being, Who was the paragon of every creature, By not awaiting light fell immature.

And hence appears it, that each minor nature Is scant receptacle unto that good Which has no end, and by itself is measured.

In consequence our vision, which perforce Must be some ray of that intelligence With which all things whatever are replete, Cannot in its own nature be so potent, That it shall not its origin discern Far beyond that which is apparent to it.

Therefore into the justice sempiternal The power of vision that your world receives, As eye into the ocean, penetrates;

Which, though it see the bottom near the shore, Upon the deep perceives it not, and yet 'Tis there, but it is hidden by the depth.

There is no light but comes from the serene That never is o'ercast, nay, it is darkness Or shadow of the flesh, or else its poison.

Amply to thee is opened now the cavern Which has concealed from thee the living justice Of which thou mad'st such frequent questioning.

For saidst thou: 'Born a man is on the shore Of Indus, and is none who there can speak Of Christ, nor who can read, nor who can write;