Were left behind, and at the pole the fifth Was pointing upward still its burning horn, What time my Guide: “I think that tow’rds the edge Our dexter shoulders it behoves us turn, Circling the mount as we are wont to do.” Thus in that region custom was our ensign; And we resumed our way with less suspicion For the assenting of that worthy soul They in advance went on, and I alone Behind them, and I listened to their speech, Which gave me lessons in the art of song. But soon their sweet discourses interrupted A tree which midway in the road we found, 979 With apples sweet and grateful to the smell. And even as a fir-tree tapers upward From bough to bough, so downwardly did that; I think in order that no one might climb it. On that side where our pathway was enclosed Fell from the lofty rock a limpid water, And spread itself abroad upon the leaves. The Poets twain unto the tree drew near, And from among the foliage a voice Cried: “Of this food ye shall have scarcity.”