What urn of most prized jewels, or most rare work
of gorgeous emerald, or brilliant diamond,
could ever, my Lord, worthily, with love,
hold the sacred ashes I still treasure?
His proud soul the angelic chorus next
to God welcomed, now looks down to sees
me crying--nothing we buried him in
is worthy--I long for the purest silver,
the brightest gold. Yet the finest, noblest
will follow his footsteps and his acts will
be honored as long as honor survives;
immortal histories and wise hearts shall
be the sacred temples where your name swells
these other urns are too ephemeral.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXXIV:24. See also B A1:34, 20; R XXXII:99. This reads as if written in response to someone. Key