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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 |
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Notes: V II:144. From B A1:82:44. Key |
