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A pyrrhic victory, with virtue spent, Victoria's had it, and as the mob, victorious, scorns and rages, so am I proud and angry when, drained, I am victor. Then we lack the least tinge of charity, the least sense of humility's splendor, we always think the Heavens will still smile down on us, another's blood reassures. But in the place where God dwells, that virtue which made Him become Man, to be victor over evil, that's never exhausted, endlessly strong, good, illumined. As He was humble, loved, so he chose nakedness, tight ropes, died nailed to a cross to give life. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LXXIX:239. See also B S1:63:116. Key |
