|
While you interposed your mortal body, immortal moon, between our eyes and Him, the true Sun, no-one could accuse you of degrading or staining Him--you were glass we gazed into, intently, absorbed, awed by His light. You didn't get in his way, weren't a shadow--your prayers, His presence, a glimmering, turned each shadow, thick black veils, to a shimmering fleeting white. Bright splendor, through Him, you take away darkness, serenity softens night and His hot anger. Above a lost muddled wrong world, the milk God drank runs in His veins like dew, tempers harsh justice with tender pity. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
|
Notes: From V LXXXIX:249. See also Bullock S1, 110, 140; MSs: V2 and Ve2, L; Valgrisi 111. A seventh in a series to the virgin. Key |
