God was generous to my beloved,
gave him every grace, with strength to guard
his soul, gave his face beautiful colors,
his words, the gift of noble eloquence.
How then could I deny Love, how not want
him? not be compelled when I saw, heard him?
in my mind his light is not spent, here still
I preserve his unique form completely.
Beauty and truth do not spring from simply
the harmony of the senses, something
god-like, something angelic stirs the soul;
sensual desire corrodes, did not
cause my joy or fear: rather this bright flame
lifted my proud heart above all lowness
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V LVI:56. See also B A2:20:65; R LX:169. Translation: Thérault 146. Key