PURGATORY. Данте Алигьери

has ordered me to lead this man

      up to the mountain’s height. Since sunset casts 28

      its shadow on us we will climb by night,

      having not reached real Purgatory yet.

      Sordello, can you tell us the right way?” 31

      “Yes, I will be your guide a while,” said he,

      “but not uphill at once. Now you must halt

      and be escorted to a resting place 34

      where you will find folk you’ll be glad to see.”

      “Why? Who bans our divinely ordered climb?”

      my master cried, “Do you?” Sordello stooped, 37

      drew a line with his finger on the ground,

      and said, “When light departs you won’t cross this.

      None forbids night climbing here, but darkness 40

      abolishes all wish to climb, though letting

      any drift backward down the way they came.”

      My master brooded, then said, “Lead us please 43

      to where you say a rest will do us good.”

      He led us in the gloaming a short way

      toward a corrie hollowing the slope, 46

      then said, “Here we will wait for a new day

      deep in the mountain’s lap.” A winding path

      49 that rose and fell brought us to that deep dell.

      We stood upon the edge where, gazing down

      there still was light enough to see below

      52 a glowing lawn as green as emerald

      with blossoms golden, crimson, pearly white,

      silver and azure and pure indigo.

      55 All colours of the rainbow were surpassed

      by blooms feasting our eyes. Their fragrances

      blent in one sweetness, lovely but unknown

      58 to living men before I breathed that air,

      and there sat souls unseen by lower folk

      singing the Holy Hymn to Heaven’s Queen.

      61 “Before the sun now setting leaves the sky,”

      Sordello said, “we need descend no more.

      Why? Those below are clearly seen from here.

      64 He who sits highest of that kingly crew,

      too glum to move his lips in sacred song

      was Rudolph, Emperor, who failed to heal

      67 wounds that have mangled Italy so long.

      Trying to comfort him is Ottocar,

      King of Bohemia, in his nappies

      70 better than bearded Wenceslaus, his son

      who lazily now occupies his throne.

      That snub-nosed chap beating his breast in grief