At The Midpoint On The Journey Of

O Faithful Conscience, Delicately Pure, How Doth A Little Failing Wound Thee Sore!

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.

This Mountain Is So Formed That It Is Always Wearisome When One Begins The Ascent, But Becomes Easier The Higher One Climbs.

When I Had Journeyed Half Of Our Life's Way, I Found Myself Within A Shadowed Forest, For I Had Lost The Path That Does Not Stray.

But The Stars That Marked Our Starting Fall Away. We Must Go Deeper Into Greater Pain, For It Is Not Permitted That We Stay.