I can barely make out from far away
a tiny fragile just flowering branch--
it stops a heartbeat, brings tears to my eyes,
and at once envious Death snips it off.
Gone. I pray his soul's graciousness and strength,
free at last from this world's sordid cares, fly
to that quiet shore where all's safe, he who
on this earth beat back this bleak angry sea,
to restore to Rome her ancient splendor,
who worked to bring about for God's realm all
we covet, aspire to, that day when
we'll find strength and integrity equal
to the painful difficulties, and, blest,
shelter together under Peter's cloak.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V V:391. See also B E19:212; MSs L, CASI, RA. Translations: Roscoe 345; Lawley 85-6. On the death of Gasparo Contarini (August 24, 1542). Key