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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 |
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Notes: V CIV:104. From B A2:18:64. In MS Pa and all other early eds (1538/9, 1692, 1760 &c), but R. Key |
