There was not room enough Even for this great poet.

In his song I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, Closing upon him, never more to open; But mingled with the sound are melodies Celestial from the gates of paradise.
He came, and he is gone.

The people knew not What manner of man was passing by their doors, Until he passed no more; but in his vision He saw the torments and beatitudes Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.
I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice.

It is not hers, But the Colonna's.

Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide.