Why didn't I slip off this stifling flesh
as I gave myself up to joy? and why
did I remain alive, no, as one dead,
alone and lost, when my true self parted.
With him as my sacred and noble guide,
my errors would be hidden in dazzling
light, by his side on that steep road, I'd be
welcomed through his merit, his victory.
Content in this, blessed in that--my vision
of him, free from anxiety, anguish
from the world, sheltered by my Sun's bright rays.
With him there could I fear the uncertain
passage, the thick shadows in the earth? But
I'm not worthy death, much less this vision.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XVI:16 and B A1:44:25. See also R XLVII:129 and commentary. Translation: Therault 180-1. Key