My mind, that of itself it makes a joy 1610 Because it can endure this and not burst. Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral, Who were your ancestors, and what the years That in your boyhood chronicled themselves? Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, 1611 How large it was, and who the people were Within it worthy of the highest seats.” As at the blowing of the winds a coal Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light Become resplendent at my blandishments. And as unto mine eyes it grew more fair, With voice more sweet and tender, but not in This modern dialect, it said to me: 1612 “From uttering of the Ave, till the birth 1613 In which my mother, who is now a saint, Of me was lightened who had been her burden, Unto its Lion had this fire returned Five hundred fifty times and thirty more, To reinflame itself beneath his paw.