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|
From V LXXVIII:78. See also B A1:59:32; R LVII:56. Key