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Blessed are they whom time can't hurt, who can't know this hardened wornness, these wounds which ache, restrict the chest--when night finally ends for you, day has its solaces--your prop isn't lost, your Sun isn't gray--your feet not tangled in a trap or labyrinth-- they're uncaught, safe in your haven; your hair hasn't thinned, leaving you vulnerable to need, to temptation from enmity. One flame fuels a sweet yearning, not gnawing at the heart, for you to feed fully is not to nauseate. Those on earth who loved God, didn't want his higher place, her great prize, would welcome a splendor so blessed. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CIII:263. See also B S1:130:150. Key |
