Looking Down to Move Forward — Divine Comedy

Dante keeps equal pace, like oxen in a yoke, with the laden spirit as long as Virgil suffers it. Then the mild instructor bids him quit that company and proceed: here each man must push on his bark with sail and oars, as best he may. Upright, disposed for speed, Dante raises his body and still keeps the thought bowed. He follows the leader's track, and they fare so light that Virgil warns him to bend his eyesight down. To ease the way, ruminate the bed beneath thy feet. The floor is wrought like earth-level tombs whose sculptured forms wake tears in the piteous only, but here the portraiture is more curious still. On one part, the creature created noblest is lightning falling from heaven. Opposite, Briareus lies pierced, cumbering earth. Apollo, Mars, and Pallas gaze on giant limbs strewn over the field. Nimrod stands bewildered at the foot of his own work on Sennaar's plain.

Niobe is drawn in a trance of woe, seven sons slain on either side. Saul expires on his own sword in Gilboa, from that hour never visited with rain or dew. Arachne, half spider, crawls up the unfinished web that was her bane. Rehoboam no longer lours defiance; fear-smote, with none to chase him, he whirls in his chariot. Alcmaeon, Sennacherib, Tomyris crying blood for blood, Holofernes, and Troy in ashes and caverns: how fallen, how abject, Ilion. Dead look dead; the living seem alive. Dante treads it all low-bending. Now swell out, sons of Eve, with stiff necks, and veil not your looks, lest they descry the evil of your path. He does not note how much they have circled, so busied is his thought, until Virgil tells him to raise his head. Time is not for slow suspense. An angel hastes toward them. The sixth handmaid returns from service on the day. Wear reverent awe. This day never dawns again.

The shape approaches, snowy white, visage like the matin star. Arms open, then wings: onward, the steps are near, the ascent now without difficulty gained. A scanty few, hearing such tidings, hasten. O race of men, though born to soar, why suffer a wind so slight to baffle ye? At the parted rock the angel beats his wings against Dante's front and promises safety. They climb a steep like the steps under Rubaconte's chapel, cliffs pressing close. Voices sing Blessed are the poor in spirit. Songs here, shrieks in hell. Dante feels lighter than on the plain. What heavy thing has been taken? When the remaining characters on the temples are razed as one already is, the feet will feel not labour but delight. He searches his brow as a man finds on his head what others' becks have told him, and counts six letters only. Virgil, marking the action, smiles.