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I was far from knowing what years can bring-- the coldness, boredom, and irritation; I was young when you left me in the dark, in anguish, and returned to paradise, Oh my Sun, perhaps I was not up to the hot passion which stirred you to open eagle's wings and me to avoid the world's lies and anger, to scorn, with you, this flesh. You flew so easily: under your wings I would've eagerly leapt with you far from this world's harsh pain. Beloved, alas that I was not there when you died, without you, my strength is such anyone may take me from this life or kill me as they please. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LIV:54. See also B A2:43:77; R XLVIII:132. Key |
