Even if, Love, death is my real hope, still
I hang on, breathe the pure flame of that first
encounter, the desire his first look
taught me will be with me to my last hour.
My life--dear God soon over--and these my
reveries--long drawn out--will both end in
one breath--your first dart made a mortal wound,
since when I'm beyond caring, beyond fear.
If loyally I do not tell my grief,
my anguish cries out in a thousand ways:
let me have a moment's respite before
the long war. It's not that I want freedom--
but to let burning need subside a bit
that more life may have some use to others.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V XXXIX:39. From B A1:48:27. See also R LXII:174. Translation: Thérault 178-9. Key