If ardent hope was the sweet food that fed
my flame ceaselessly--now that hope is spent,
how does this flame grow, burn so intensely,
how am I twined round, why do I tremble?
There was a time when hope fled, pleasure ceased.
What art now cools the wound, thus giving it
fresh life? what illusion flatters, what
fruit ensnares me--if death ripped out the tree,
the seeds gone, no flower possible. Is
it I am consumed by love's fever, flame,
torch, a wild-fire whose burning grey-white coals
cannot die. Ah, my love lives on itself,
draws life from my willing soul: I am still
his food worthy of him whom I nourished.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V IV:4. From B A1:23:14. See also R LXIII:172. Translation: Lefèvre-Deumier, 71 Key