With my mind's eye I see angels singing,
they replace the arrogant muses; a
new nine, new beginning moving round a
fiery Sun, which lights the dance, and shows
the humble mind what the eternal realm
is. I listen, and am lifted above
my body, outside nature, I've wings so
lofty, gossamer, just ahead's the Sun.
But that my soul's a wanderer on earth,
not worthy God's elysium, she'd know
Love's complete joy, this radiance would not
slip off. When more than the flesh's beauty,
when honor ravage us, it's good to cry,
scorn the mud which clings, the mud we grew in.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V II:162. See also B S2:1:177 and R V:407. Key