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|
V LXXIV:74. B A1:60:33. See also R LXXXVII:248. Key