The tender love-making, our harmony
of thought, dear union miraculously
ordained by God for a peace our souls and
bodies wove, knotted in exquisite joy.
I sing this lovely art and its maker--
though moved by far other hope, eager, keen,
would seek dissolution before I age,
for him, for pleasure no more for me here.
Walled up in this evil prison, hated
like an enemy, my soul is confused,
here is no life, there yearned-for no flight.
I would know splendor, I would melt into
the light which gave light to my existence:
it was only through his life I knew life.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XV:15. From Bullock A1:29:17. See also R LXVII:185. Translation: Thérault, 181-2. Key