As Phoebus' light emerges in the east,
and he pushes aside night's black curtain,
and from the earth chill frost and cold shadows
dissolve, dispelled by his fiery rays,
I again take up the burden I've known
since that first moment of anguish, all the
anxieties sleep's deceits had lulled--my
pleasures turned into those wintry shadows
dreams had scattered, blown away. How tired
I am, hostility everywhere
my fate; I seek obscurity, flee light,
attention. I hate life, long but to die.
What hurts others relieves me: for closing
my eyes opens a door to my real Sun.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V LXXXII:82 and B A1:68:37. See also R CII:295. Translation: Roscoe 98. Key