No matter how hard I work, to what lengths
I push myself to rid me of him--but one
thought brings back the old desire--we're told
hard labor yields sweet fruit but I hunger
and cannot resist the food my dream feeds
my heart: thus effort makes life a burden
while dreams ease it. Curious. Is the world's
truth false? is pleasure pain? how loosen
its grasp? is self-restraint my friend, or hope
bliss? I pray to join him. But then I
picture him on earth, and ache with longing.
My mind wanders--but his light sustained me
and it matters not that I am spent
and tortured--I yield myself to him.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XLIV:44. From B A1:38:22 and R LXXXIX:254, and commentary. Key