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If ardent hope was the sweet food that fed
my flame ceaselessly--now that hope is spent, how does this flame grow, burn so intensely, how am I twined round, why do I tremble? There was a time when hope fled, pleasure ceased. What art now cools the wound, thus giving it fresh life? what illusion flatters, what fruit ensnares me--if death ripped out the tree, the seeds gone, no flower possible. Is it I am consumed by love's fever, flame, torch, a wild-fire whose burning grey-white coals cannot die. Ah, my love lives on itself, draws life from my willing soul: I am still his food worthy of him whom I nourished. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V IV:4. From B A1:23:14. See also R LXIII:172. Translation: Lefèvre-Deumier, 71 Key |
