If, with God's weapons, I could have conquered
my passions, reason, my sense of self, left
this world far behind long ago, dismissed
your painted honors in another mood,
on faith's wings, with hope holding together
a shattered mind, no longer near the edge,
foolish and fragile, I'd find a way up
these maddened valleys compelled by real strength.
I fixed my eyes on life's noblest goals, yet
can't lift myself, I'm not on the right road,
mine is anything but firm and easy.
I do glimpse signs, rays of light, dawn's beauty,
but can't cross the threshold, allow myself,
don't belong in those holy lighted rooms.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXX:190. See also B S1:58:114. Translations: Roscoe 102; Harford 12; Lefevre-Deumier 100; Bouchard 259; McAuliffe 105. Key