The holy virtues in true quiet peace
dwelt, my Lord, in your wise heart, for you were
their sanctuary, you kept them safe and
strong; the vice-ridden could not suspect
their presence. Yet you were gay: everyone
said so, felt your thirst, eager to match your
goodness and strength: you were a fortress;
from your soil only splendour could be sown.
Now I see these virtues wander across
a sad obscure sky; exiled from home, they
cry bitterly, tormented by the lost
hope of seeing something they cannot see.
Thus, my endless tears which sparkle so brightly.
Such things are miracles in other hearts.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V VII:149. From B A1:81:43. Key