Thus do the blind, in want of livelihood, Stand at the doors of churches asking alms, And one upon another leans his head, So that in others pity soon may rise, Not only at the accent of their words, But at their aspect, which no less implores. And as unto the blind the sun comes not, So to the shades, of whom just now I spake, Heaven’s light will not be bounteous of itself; For all their lids an iron wire transpierces, And sews them up, as to a sparhawk wild Is done, because it will not quiet stay. To me it seemed, in passing, to do outrage, Seeing the others without being seen; Wherefore I turned me to my counsel sage. Well knew he what the mute one wished to say, And therefore waited not for my demand, But said: “Speak, and be brief, and to the point.” I had Virgilius upon that side Of the embankment from which one may fall, Since by no border ’tis engarlanded; Upon the other side of me I had The shades devout, who through the horrible seam Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks.