When I look out at this vast sphere of sky,
first circle within God's magnificence,
myself shut up in a small bit of flesh,
a curious piece of earth which helps us
to grasp God's majesty, grow old, I loathe,
scorn my longing for some loveliness, to
wander through this earth as her seasons change
slowly from warm to cold, to possess all
her treasures. How brief seems Apollo's song
to the soul the real Sun has taught and warmed
with the strange sacred lights of paradise.
And no matter how wise Pallas Athene,
how noble her song, she serves but to know
this world, narrow self's ends, partial beauty.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXVII:187. See also B S1:43:106. No MSs; Valgrisi 43. Key