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From our sordid utterly frail standpoint,
from the lowness of what we call reason, from the sensual dreams which draw our flesh, we measure how far we are from the soul's divine aspiration. Inadequate are reason's beginnings, means, ends: weak flesh feels their strength and soundness; in the light of eternity they are foolish and useless, a phantom of the mind which embraces this transitory earth and masters the body but cannot see the proud urge locked within. When you have what the world wants, they'll leave you in peace, but inside you're at war, strained by wrongs done, haggard from waste. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CXXVII:287. From B S1, 148, 159; no MS's; Valgrisi 149. Key |
