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When I cast aside every other thought,
and turn to my beloved, to talk to his light, reach his warmth as one would a bright particular star which appeared only once, I see, yes see, how beautiful he was, hear his voice once again, God- like, noble, I cry because I am chained in a prison. Not because I would free myself of him, not because he was brave or true to what he was, and was thus made welcome as he climbed the stairs to heaven. I cry because I am ill which is to say sad. Health comes so slow. How I long for death to follow him where he beckons me. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V LXXIV:74. B A1:60:33. See also R LXXXVII:248. Key |
