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The branches you talk of on one sacred tree rooted together in the earth were not the same: his were fresh and green, mine, black and withered; we all know Love's fruits differ. Perhaps I could match this felicitous style you talk of if with my beloved I'd climbed to Parnassus and Paradise like the loving Laura and Beatrice. I must be content to immortalize him on earth by speaking to him alone in rare unworldly ways: my flight is into solitude, reverie. By leaning on him, I, though sad and low, cannot stumble: I walk with dignity in his honor. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XCVIII:98. See also B A2:17:64; MS L; 1538-9, 1692, 1760 Rota. The context and interlocutor of this poem is in dispute: I follow Pompeo Colonna's recent biographer, AConsorti, in translating it as to Vittoria's cousin in response to one of his (printed Visconti, p. 428) Key |
