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I am afraid I have deceived myself
with what I have lived upon for many long years. Is it habit orders these lines? I wrote them in an effort to reach God. Oh I'm afraid these are springes for birds. I've a tin ear, blunt words, and a foolish respect for useful days spent uselessly, When I reason with myself I get nowhere, I feel only the pain of self-reproach. So I pray for no thoughts, for blank silence, to be consumed in this fire's embrace. But grief breaks in, hot tears are running down my face, body--so I will sing to God who, deaf to impressive words, hears the heart. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CLXXXVIII:348. From B S1:179:174 (320) Key |
