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|
From V CX:110. See also B A2:21:16; R XXI:70 (Bullock's text). Key