“Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd,That covers, with the most exalted pointOf its meridian circle, Salem's walls;And night, that opposite to him her orbRounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth,Holding the scales, that from her hands are droptWhen she reigns highest: so that where I was,Aurora's white and vermeil - tinctured cheekTo orange turn'd as she in age increased.”

“As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force.”

“To get back up to the shining world from thereMy guide and I went into that hidden tunnel,And Following its path, we took no careTo rest, but climbed: he first, then I-so far,through a round aperture I saw appearSome of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.”

“And following its path, we took no careTo rest, but climbed: he first, then I-- so far,Through a round aperture I saw appearSome of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.”

“The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.”

“Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state,perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and herewere every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing.”

“those cries rose from among the twisted rootsthrough which the spirits of the damned were slinkingto hide from us. Therefore my Master said:'If you break off a twig, what you will learnwill drive what you are thinking from your head.'Puzzled, I raised my hand a bit and slowlybroke off a branchlet from an enormous thorn:and the great trunk of it cried: 'Why do you break me?'And after blood had darkened all the bowlof the wound, it cried again: 'Why do you tear me?Is there no pity left in any soul?Men we were, and now we are changed to sticks;well might your hand have been more mercifulwere we no more than souls of lice and ticks.'As a green branch with one end all aflamewill hiss and sputter sap out of the otheras the air escapes- so from that trunk there camewords and blood together, gout by gout.Startled, I dropped the branch that I was holdingand stood transfixed by fear,...”