Canto XXVI

the sands, These of the frost, those of the sun avoidant, One folk is going, and the other coming, And weeping they return to their first songs, And to the cry that most befitteth them; And close to me approached, even as before, The very same who had entreated me, Attent to listen in their countenance. I, who their inclination twice had seen, Began: “O souls secure in the possession, Whene’er it may be, of a state of peace, Neither unripe nor ripened have remained My members upon earth, but here are with me With their own blood and their articulations. I go up here to be no longer blind; A Lady is above, who wins this grace, Whereby the mortal through your world I bring. But as your greatest longing satisfied May soon become, so that the Heaven may house you Which full of love is, and most amply spreads, Tell me, that I again in books may write it, Who are you, and what is that multitude Which goes upon its way behind your backs?” Not otherwise with wonder is bewildered The mountaineer, and staring round is dumb, When rough and rustic to the town he goes, Than every shade became in its appearance; But when they of their stupor were disburdened, Which in high hearts is quickly quieted, “Blessed be thou, who of our border-lands,” He recommenced who first had questioned us, “Experience freightest for a better life. The folk that comes not with us have offended In that for which once Caesar, triumphing, Heard himself called in contumely, ‘Queen.’ Therefore they separate, exclaiming, ‘Sodom!’ Themselves reproving, even as thou hast heard, And add unto their burning by their shame. Our own transgression was hermaphrodite; But because we observed not human law, Following like unto beasts our appetite, In our opprobrium by us is read, When we part company, the name of her Who bestialized herself in bestial wood. Now knowest thou our acts, and what our crime was; Wouldst thou perchance by name know who we are, There is not time to tell, nor could I do it. Thy wish to know me shall in sooth be granted; I’m Guido Guinicelli, and now purge me, Having repented ere the hour extreme.” The same that in the sadness of Lycurgus Two sons became, their mother re-beholding, Such I