Perhaps to some it will seem my speaking
of eternal things, remote and hidden
from mortal eyes and this earth, well beyond
the glimpse of genius, argues I'm unwell.
Well, we don't, I believe, have anyone
meditating humbly and plainly, who
looks askance at the world's pompous prizes,
the golden bluffs, its useless, sham delights.
The poetry of prayer and faith reveals
that people desire to make deeply
selfless sacrifices and this yearning
is carved multifold into the heart's core.
So I pray for strength to speak, for my tongue
to be untied to honor these in rhyme.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V IV:164. From B S1:3:86. Key