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I turned and saw that my face had reddened, gone soft with damp. Did I cry? rain running down without apparent cause? What's today that my sad heart aches and feels yet more seared? If Love widens the wound--it's no deeper, or harder to bear; it's not like a new major wound. Time cannot add the slightest or abate my relentless need one whit. "Don't you remember? This day marks the fourth year of mourning, the fourth of widowhood?" Thus my oldest friend, my understanding. I knew then passion is more truthful than the senses--ever deceivers--yes, I cried, and knowing why increases the tears. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LXXVIII:78. See also B A1:59:32; R LVII:56. Key |
