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|
From V CIII:263. See also B S1:130:150. Key