By such signs, and on foot of such examples,

some say that bees have supped a draught that is divine,

that, as a matter of true fact, a god pervades the whole wide world,

sea’s expanse and heaven’s height,

whence flocks and herds and men, and all species of savage beast,

derive that fine line of life the second they are born.

And, what’s more, to him all things return in time, dissolved

and reabsorbed; there is no place for death–instead they soar,

still alive–to take their rightful place among the stars.

If, reader, I had ampler space in which

to write, I’d sing–though incompletely–that

sweet draught for which my thirst was limitless;

but since all of the pages pre-disposed

for this, the second canticle, are full,

the curb of art will not let me continue.

From the most holy wave I now returned

to Beatrice; remade, as new trees are

renewed when they bring forth new boughs, I was

pure and prepared to climb unto the stars