Before I feel this inner wind, Your breath,
move and warm the air around me, before
I feel a new desire overcome
Eve, I unfold my wings towards you in vain--
Your work, gift, Lord, is to let mortals reach
to transcend this life, but since one gets one
moment for this great alteration, fear
I'll fail, hesitate, fall back as I take
that leap. I long for the light the Heavens
create, pour down to drive away the dark,
dense mist--that fire ice cannot resist.
In the gladness, warmth in a wintry mist,
free of the world's ideas, my soul knows to
fly high takes miraculous wings and ink.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V IX:169. See also B S1:10:90; R VII:410 . Key