To this torment has Love reduced my life:
the light of my life makes everything dark--
after he appears to me he leaves me
burning, aching, scorched for want of him.
The full beauty of this earth--seen only
by the few who can see and understand--
pains, disquiets, and preys on me such that
my heart aches--I cannot stop the slow tears.
When I see a green meadow, I tremble:
while I know he cannot come back to me,
I dream he is by my side young again
and beautiful--whom Death tore from me, now
a corpse. Death took his brief life and left me
to mourn and struggle endlessly in the dark.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V X:10 and B A1:11:8 and Visconti X, 10. See also R XL:113. Translation: Therault, 175. Key