Respect holds me back, deep love draws me
towards the splendor, so I may know within
my heart I am sheltering God--grateful,
through His compassion, to be so honored.
My faults, like frost and his living warmth towards
all of us make me doubt my mind's clearness--
his ardour rouses, my coldness corrodes,
one makes hope, the other fear, but, amid
my doubts, my faith burns strong and is sincere,
but needs food for the spirit--so poor soul,
she must approach the frank white sunlight of
His presence. You see, while she lives in this
hard bark, this flesh, she must remain weak and
tired, unless He feed and strengthen her.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V CXCIII:353. See also B S1:20:95; Key