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Blessed is the soul who's drawn away from this world, who's not been in sympathy with the brief sordid journey, wretched, the soul who's in love with it, to whom need and use aren't enough; he must have all to live. In that first bitter or last sweet moment we die or go to paradise naked, before God stripped of the world's velvet gowns. How they'll cry, in search of lost time, when they recall for the brief smiles of flattery they prized what leads to perpetual grief. Think that as we don't tire of evil naturally, don't enjoy reason or virtue, still we can be afraid of God. {Actual poem goes here with between each line and between each line group} |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XIII:173. See also B S1:35:102. Key |
