Then seemed to me so much of heaven enkindled By the sun’s flame, that neither rain nor river E’er made a lake so widely spread abroad. The newness of the sound and the great light Kindled in me a longing for their cause, Never before with such acuteness felt; Whence she, who saw me as I saw myself, To quiet in me my perturbed mind, Opened her mouth, ere I did mine to ask, And she began: “Thou makest thyself so dull With false imagining, that thou seest not What thou wouldst see if thou hadst shaken it off. Thou art not upon earth, as thou believest; But lightning, fleeing its appropriate site, 1214 Ne’er ran as thou, who thitherward returnest.” If of my former doubt I was divested By these brief little words more smiled than spoken, I in a new one was the more ensnared; And said: “Already did I rest content From great amazement; but am now amazed In what way I transcend these bodies light.” Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh, Her eyes directed tow’rds me with that look