The dart inflicts the wound that cannot heal,
it widens as the years come and go: spreads,
blood seeping into the skin. My merit
may be how deep love's anxiety went.
Time has given my sun and love splendor;
me, life and liberty which steal away.
Still if these bright poems of praise renew my
anguish, the deceit is so sweet to me,
my deep cure may lie in these dreams I can't
resist. It gratifies me when the world
sees what I saw; if so to do keeps my
wound fresh to stir the soul is right. Kind and
learned friends praise my work--they understand
sorrow made lovely can console the heart.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V II:144. From B A1:82:44. Key