Reader, if you have ever been taken by cloud on a mountain, seeing no better than a mole through membrane, then watched the vapours melt until the sun seemed to wade: so Dante first re-beholds the sun, already bedward, as he matches Virgil's feet out of the fog. A quick forgetive power can rob us of ourselves until a thousand trumpets would clang unmarked. What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light kindled in heaven, or gliding down by will divine. Portrayed before him come the traces of her whose form was changed into the bird that most delights in song. Then a crucified shape whose visage speaks fell rancour, with Ahasuerus, Esther, and blameless Mordecai; the coinage bursts like a bubble. A damsel weeps: O queen, O mother, intemperate ire has driven thee to loathe thy being; not to lose Lavinia thou hast slain thyself, and now hast lost me. New radiance on closed lids breaks the sleep. A voice: Here ye mount. Dante's virtue fails as before a sun that veils itself in light. This is a spirit from above who marshals the way unsought and shrouds himself in his own light. Who waits to be implored, seeing the need, prepares for blunt denial. Haste before it darken. At the first stair a wing fans Dante's face: Blessed they the peacemakers; they know not evil wrath.
The last beams rise, followed by hooded night, and many a star shines. Why partest from me, O my strength? The sinews slacken. They are fixed like a bark arrived at land. If our feet rest, Dante says, no need thy speech should pause: declare what guilt this circle purges. The love of good, whatever wanted of just proportion, here fulfils. Here plies afresh the oar that loitered ill.
Creator nor created being was ever without love, natural or the free spirit's growth. The natural is without error; the other swerves if bent on an ill object, or through excess or defect of vigour. Love is germin of each virtue and of each act that merits pain. None can hate himself, nor hate the first being on which he depends; so the evil loved must be another's. Three ways such love is gendered in your clay: he who hopes, his neighbour's worth depressed, for preeminence; he who so fears a fellow's rise in power, fame, favour, glory that he loves their opposite; and he whom wrong so galls that he thirsts for vengeance and dotes on another's evil. Here beneath, this threefold love is mourned. Of the other sort: all yearn after a bliss on which the soul may rest. If ye seek it with a love remiss and lax, this cornice after repenting lays its torment. Other good is not true fruition; love too lavishly bestowed on that is mourned along three circles over us. Expect not the tripartite account; it is fitter for thine own research.