It doesn't matter where I turn my eyes,
fix my heart in this obscurely-lit place,
our living dead everywhere--for right from
wrong cannot be made out until we die.
Hope ever deluded, anxiety
drives me: I lack the comfort I must have
unless I withdraw into the haven
God's love opened through His wounds on the cross.
There is heart's ease, life, there dignity based
on simple faith, there everyone yearns for
rebirth in a far other better world.
The more worldliness repels, the more I
find peace in the quiet dawn and true Sun,
the more I withdraw and on myself live
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXXV:195. See also B S1:69:119. Translation: McAuliffe 118-9. Key