I haven't the courage to fly where thought,

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

Amaro Lagrimar
Contact Ellen Moody.
Pagemaster: Jim Moody.
Page Last Updated 6 January 2003