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It's an old old habit, this loathing of death, this blindness of ours--we who die, born of not having that fixed noble hope angels shoulder in those great beating wings, nor do we build on that rock all say is adamantine; no, we ground ourselves in shifting sands; there, exposed to every harm, we build our house; say, here is our space. Still, from faith, or God's grace, the soul hopes on, finds strong if costly signs the arrogant see as wrong, evil, their worst enemy. It's not that I want to own, hug, entice death into my arms--no, I exhaust my flesh for a splendor sense can't imagine. |
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Notes: From B S2:19:186; MSs L and V2 (or Ve2). First printed Tordi 2:37. Tordi think this is another poem to Francesco in answer to his sonnet, "Dunque se 'l cielo invividioso ed empio," Key |