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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 |
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Notes: From V CLXXV:335. See also B S2:9:181; no MSs; in 1548 Valgrisi; 1693 Bulifon; 1760 Rota. Key |
