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This tree, nature's kind gift to us, whose roots spread so much farther down than we can see, whose luscious fruit, flowers, green leaves--branches poised--were exquisitely cultivated, whose untouched pulp an unseen malicious worm attacked and ate up from within; and whose strength became weakness; teeming life, a wasteland; loveliness, dark haggard fatigue-- this is that fair resolute soul who hid a fatal poison, staining, seeping in corroding her light from eternity; if humble, repentent, she does not now flee to Jesus' fountain: He can compel, His merit alone make her sick soul sound. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CLXIII:323. See also B S2:10:182. Key |
