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My soul is more in love than ever with my beloved; when young he swept through war's narrow mean roads, endured much for honor, cast his splendor over us for a time. When the known world trembled as he lifted his invincible sword, he had not reached the noon of his day, his journey's midpoint-- How welcome to death are those who die young. There was no sunset in the west of my love; to me he dwells in the dawn, the east: through him my heart's strength will be renewed when I have drained torment's cup. He went straight to honor's door, now with God he is content, and I here feed myself on his courage. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CX:110. See also B A2:21:16; R XXI:70 (Bullock's text). Key |
