If I'm afraid, not bold enough for flight,
if, Icarus-like, my wings melt like wax,
if I hesitate before entering
the fiery sphere, God has made me thus.
I should remember there's no envy there,
the famed and great-souled lack nothing; like them
define myself through encountering fate,
him, my subject--remember he lived in
our time, a wonder. Never opposed, wrapped
in Mars' impervious light, untouched by
twisted angry lightning swirling round him.
Ah but death approached stealthily, tricked him;
gayly, unguardedly he ran to her--
he didn't fall. He just disappeared.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V CIV:104. From B A2:18:64. In MS Pa and all other early eds (1538/9, 1692, 1760 &c), but R. Key