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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 |
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Notes: From V LXXXII:82 and B A1:68:37. See also R CII:295. Translation: Roscoe 98. Key |
