Even as a man who finds his way cut off; But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme, And of the mortal shoulder laden with it, Should blame it not, if under this it tremble. It is no passage for a little boat This which goes cleaving the audacious prow, Nor for a pilot who would spare himself. “Why doth my face so much enamour thee, 1824 That to the garden fair thou turnest not, Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming? There is the Rose in which the Word Divine 1825 Became incarnate; there the lilies are 1826 By whose perfume the good way was discovered.” Thus Beatrice; and I, who to her counsels Was wholly ready, once again betook me Unto the battle of the feeble brows. 1827 As in the sunshine, that unsullied streams Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers Mine eyes with shadow covered o’er have seen, So troops of splendors manifold I saw