Since excellence derives from the vision
and understanding of the mind trying
to create it, where God's brightest realm is,
dull spiteful souls, envious, can see only shadows.
And if, unless we, like the angels, dwell
with Him, lies will drive out truth, one's eyes twist
to stare at the oblivion of self,
alas, what must I, entangled, burdened
by this earth, fear? We love ourselves too much,
from Eve to the last of her sons, self-love
the enemy's weapon, maims, destroys us.
Those who fly to God so as not to fall
on life's roads pray without pride to Him to
stir this air closing in on me, lift wings
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXIV:184. See also B S1:48:109. No MSs; Valgrisi 48. Key