Let your immortal unparalleled soul
survey this earth's tiny space, there's nothing
to equal or fulfill what it yearns for--
there's no peace in this ceaseless war of life.
So she withdraws, finds sanctuary, and
locks the door; and the more she yields, the more
is she exalted--lets the world go by,
watches others seek and climb an unreal
useless stairway in a maze they made. We
can't see life's thread or end; only weave and
measure, loosen and pull tight the frail cloth.
It's left to us: from out dark deadly fog
enveloping our sail, rescue, rebuild
from faith in noble God-like things, a will.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V CLXXV:335. See also B S2:9:181; no MSs; in 1548 Valgrisi; 1693 Bulifon; 1760 Rota. Key