I haven't the courage to fly where thought,
my bold pen, winged, reaches--I'm wounded,
seared, what's left wasted by the hot spirit
impelling, now destroying all I meant.
Then you enter me, and I yield to your
searching dauntless spirit, so alluring
always. I gaze in weakness and lose my
grasp on that vigor which enables you
to soar alone. I've no ambition, no
great plan. I lost hope early, uprooted
the kind light turned harsh. I have learned to say:
Heart give no sign. Let no one see this pain.
If it's martyrdon, hide it. And then soul
lie there, don't move, worship him in silence.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V CIII:103. See also B S2:35:194. Until B, printed and read as a love poem: R XCII:266-7; also MS's: Bo, PaI, V1, Ve2. Translations: Lefèvre-Deumier 39; McAuliffe 85-6; Tusiani 174. Key