That this earth's lovely matters not, that her
works are all sweet, welcome to my eyes,
matters not, what the sun uncovers, God's
kind presence everywhere, matters not,
my heart turns away, my mind tells me
all this was nothing to him, a mortal,
yes. yet a deathless light vanished with him,
who, like Heaven, made all good, was safety.
When I stop calling on him whereever
I am, whereever I go, I stop crying
all the time, helplessly, the pain lessens,
but stop this medicine and the wound's worse:
I am not mad: it's reason places him
before me, for illusion's my refuge.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V LIX:59. From B A1:8:7. See also R XXVIII:90 Key