The glory of Paradise— St. Bernard.
In fashion then as of a snow-white rose Displayed itself to me the saintly host, Whom Christ in his own blood had made his bride, But the other host, that flying sees and sings The glory of Him who doth enamour it, And the goodness that created it so noble, Even as a swarm of bees, that sinks in flowers One moment, and the next returns again To where its labor is to sweetness turned, Sank into the great flower, that is adorned With leaves so many, and thence reascended To where its love abideth evermore. Their faces had they all of living flame, And wings of gold, and all the rest so white No snow unto that limit doth attain. From bench to bench, into the flower descending, They carried something of the peace and ardor Which by the fanning of their flanks they won. Nor did the interposing ’twixt the flower And what was o’er it of such plenitude Of flying shapes impede the sight and splendor; Because the light divine so penetrates The universe, according to its merit, That naught can be an obstacle against it. This realm secure and full of gladsomeness, Crowded with ancient people and with modern, Unto one mark had all its look and love. O Trinal Light, that in a single star Sparkling upon their sight so satisfies them, Look down upon our tempest here below! If the barbarians, coming from some region That every day by Helice is covered, Revolving with her son whom she delights in, Beholding Rome and all her noble works, Were wonder-struck, what time the Lateran Above all mortal things was eminent— I who to the divine had from the human, From time unto eternity, had come, From Florence to a people just and sane, With what amazement must I have been filled! Truly between this and the joy, it was My pleasure not to hear, and to be mute. And as a pilgrim who delighteth him In gazing round the temple of his vow, And hopes some day to retell how it was, So through the living light