O power of fantasy that steals our minds from things outside, to leave us unaware, although a thousand trumpets may blow loud--what stirs you if the senses show you nothing? Light stirs you, formed in Heaven, by itself, or by His will Who sends it down to us.

Pure essence, and pure matter, and the two joined into one were shot forth without flaw, like three bright arrows from a three-string bow.

Justice divine has weighed: the doom is clear. All hope renounce, ye lost, who enter here.

Follow your own star!

There's not the least thing can be said or done, but people will talk and find fault.

Before me things created were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.