Beatrice

The shining faceSmiled straight into the skies;A rosy glow was on her archéd neck;

Her radiant brow,Lofty, serene, and fair,And her glance like a rose new-blown,

And the fresh smileOf pure youth,Awakened in the heart new ecstasies:

But awe-inspiringAnd with fear entrancingWas her presence.

Floating on the windIn the morning airWas her sky-blue mantle, her white veil.

Like Our Lady from heavenShe passed before me,An angel in seeming and yet all so ardent.

My mind stopped thinkingBut to look at her,And the soul was at rest—but for sighing.

Then said I: O how or whenDid earth deserveThat such a mark of love be given her?

What reckless ancestorsGave thee to the world?What age ever bore so fair a thing as thou?

What serener starProduced thy form?What love divine evolved thee from its light?

Easily the ways of manFollowing the blessed guidanceOf thee, Beatrice, were all made new!

—“Not a woman, but the IdeaAm I, which heaven did offerFor man to study when seeking things on high.

“When hearts, not wholly cooledOf their potential fires,Fought hard with life severe, and with the truth,

“And to the valiant thinkingAnd courageous hopeFaith and true love lent arms of constancy,—

“Then, from my airy seat descending,Among these gallant souls I came,Kindled and kept alive their ardent zeal;

“And, faithful to my champions,Clasped in their mighty embrace,I made them worship Death—yea, and Defeat,

“While, traced by dreamy soulsIn verse and colours,I wandered through the laurels on Arno's banks.

“In vain you look for me'Mong your poor household gods—No Bice Portinari—I am the Idea!”