Though your hours of life were few, my Lord,
your encompassing infinite splendor
abides: you spent yourself in sustaining
the noble strength which made you immortal.
In the middle of our life's road you had
attained the highest honors: this because
your chivalry never let your virtue swerve
swerve from the good even for a moment.
Relieved, freed of this world's evil burdens,
you flew swiftly, lightly to Paradise,
unconcerned what happened to your body.
My grief restrained, his mortal weight become
a noble chance, I feel a curious
gaiety, and rejoice to live in pain.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XXXII:32. See also B A1:57:31; R XXII:72-73. Key