So great a shame did weigh my forehead down. As to the son the mother seems superb, So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter Tasteth the savor of severe compassion. Silent became she, and the Angels sang Suddenly, “ In te, Domine, speravi ”: 1120 But beyond pedes meos did not pass. Even as the snow among the living rafters 1121 Upon the back of Italy congeals, Blown on and drifted by Sclavonian winds, 1122 And then, dissolving, trickles through itself Whene’er the land that loses shadow breathes, So that it seems a fire that melts a taper; E’en thus was I without a tear or sigh, Before the song of those who sing forever After the music of the eternal spheres. But when I heard in their sweet melodies