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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 |
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Notes: V IX:169. See also B S1:10:90; R VII:410 . Key |
