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When my mind is freed of other troubles,
I feel the hurt my soul suffers. Then how I grieve--the tears come, bathe my face, run down over my sad heart. These then form a stream of nourishing waters, a fountain to gaze into. And I see his face. The tears stop, as I know the joy of seeing him which deranges me further as I am in pain. He's not here. Still this welcome dream calms me, stops the tears; I feel my warmth breath dry those now unfelt, already run down my body. But there's a catch. I fear sweet tears will make the stars less my enemies and it's moments like these I live for. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V XIV:14. From B A1:40:23. See also R XCVI:279-80. Translation: Lefèvre-Deumier, 78-9. Key |
