I thought to sweeten each day's bitterness
by remembering my sweetheart, to make
myself worthy the man who made this world
beautiful, my Apollo now with God.
I try to ease this weight, a torment
still so dear to me, by venting this crying
in poetry; it's my way of heeding
the advice of those everyone respects.
But I see the ceaselessly turning wheel
of the fickle goddess; I see long-, or
short-lived, those she flatters most, she means
to crush. Alas, reason's no use to me.
I cannot let this grief go, so I write
for death to put a stop to this keening
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V LXXXI:81. From B A1:51:8; R CIII:296-7. Translation: Roscoe 91. Key