Dante’s dream of anger—The Fourth Circle—The Slothful.
Remember, Reader, if e’er in the Alps A mist o’ertook thee, through which thou couldst see Not otherwise than through its membrane mole, How, when the vapors humid and condensed Begin to dissipate themselves, the sphere Of the sun feebly enters in among them, And thy imagination will be swift In coming to perceive how I re-saw The sun at first, that was already setting. Thus, to the faithful footsteps of my Master Mating mine own, I issued from that cloud To rays already dead on the low shores. O thou, Imagination, that dost steal us So from without sometimes, that man perceives not, Although around may sound a thousand trumpets, Who moveth thee, if sense impel thee not? Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form, By self, or by a will that downward guides it. Of her impiety, who changed her form Into the bird that most delights in singing, In my imagining appeared the trace; And hereupon my mind was so withdrawn Within itself, that from without there came Nothing that then might be received by it. Then rained within my lofty fantasy One crucified, disdainful and ferocious In countenance, and even thus was dying. Around him were the great Ahasuerus, Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai, Who was in word and action so entire. And even as this image burst asunder Of its own self, in fashion of a bubble In which the water it was made of fails, There rose up in my vision a young maiden Bitterly weeping, and she said: “O queen, Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught? Thou’st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose; Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns, Mother, at thine ere at another’s ruin.” As sleep is broken, when upon a sudden New light strikes in upon the eyelids closed, And broken quivers e’er it dieth wholly, So this imagining of mine fell down As soon as the effulgence smote my face, Greater by far than what is in our wont.