Meeting the Poets of Purgatory — Divine Comedy

Journey does not slacken talk, nor talk the journey. They urge like a ship with the wind astern. The shadowy forms, things dead and dead again, draw rare wonder into deep-delved orbs at a man who has life. Dante says the other shade perhaps journeys more tardily for others' sake, then asks where Piccarda is, and who of mark stands in this multitude. Forese cannot say whether beautiful or good was the fitter name: she wears her crown even now and triumphs in Olympus. Spare diet has so worn their semblance that it is lawful to name each one. His finger raises Buonaggiunta of Lucca. Beyond him a face pierced to a leaner fineness kept the church at Tours and purges Bolsena's eels and cups of muscadel. Ubaldino grinds his teeth on emptiness. Boniface once waved the crozier over a numerous flock. The Marquis had time to swill at Forli and was never sated. Dante singles the Lucchese, who seems to take most note of him, and hears an indistinct whisper of Gentucca.

Woman is born, Buonaggiunta says, whose brow no wimple shades yet, who shall make my city please thee. Then: if of a truth I see the man, the inventor of that new lay which begins Ladies, ye that con the lore of love. Dante will be counted only as the scribe of love, who takes up the pen when love breathes and writes as love dictates. Brother, says Buonaggiunta, the hindrance that once held the Notary, Guittone, and myself short of that new and sweeter style is now disclosed. I see how ye stretch your plumes as the inditer guides them; ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond sees not the distance that parts one style from another. Content, he holds his peace. The tribe turns faster, nimble through leanness and desire, like birds wintering near the Nile. Forese lingers as a man who slacks behind a trotting troop: when shall I again behold thee? Dante does not know how long his life may last; his wishes will have arrived before him. The place where he is set to live is day by day more scooped of good. Go now, Forese cries: the most guilty passes in vision, dragged at the heels of an infuriate beast toward the vale where guilt has no redemption, each step swifter, until a blow leaves him a corpse most vilely shattered. Time is precious here. I lose too much, measuring my pace with thine.

He parts with lengthened strides, a knight pricking forth from well-ranked chivalry, and leaves Dante with the two marshals of the world. When eyes no longer reach him, another fruit-tree rises, thick hung and blooming. A multitude beneath it raise their hands and shout they know not what unto the boughs, like greedy brats whom a man holds the wish at arm's length, hiding it not, to draw them on. Undeceived, they go. A voice: pass on and come not near. Higher up stands the wood whereof Eve tasted, and from it this plant was taken. Then the cloud-born creatures overgorged against Theseus, and the Hebrews whose thirst thinned Gideon's ranks. A thousand paces they travel contemplative and mute, until a voice asks why these three journey pensive and alone. Dante shakes like a paltry beast. Never in furnace was glass or metal seen so bright and glowing red. If ye desire to mount, here must ye turn: this way he goes who goes in quest of peace. A May wind blows on Dante's front; a wing sheds ambrosial smell; a voice blesses those whom grace so illumes that appetite exhales no inordinate desire, still hungering as the rule of temperance wills.