Dante and I are come to learn of thee,

Ser Guido of Florence, master of us all,

Love, who hath set his hand upon us three,

Bidding us twain upon thy glory call.

Harsh light hath rent from us the golden pall

Of that frail sleep, His first light seigniory,

And we are come through all the modes that fall

Unto their lot who meet him constantly.

Wherefore, by right, in this Lord’s name we greet thee,

Seeing we labour at his labour daily.

Thou, who dost know what way swift words are crossed

O thou, who hast sung till none at song defeat thee,

Grant! by thy might and hers of San Michele,

Thy risen voice send flames this pentecost.