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It doesn't matter where I turn my eyes, fix my heart in this obscurely-lit place, our living dead everywhere--for right from wrong cannot be made out until we die. Hope ever deluded, anxiety drives me: I lack the comfort I must have unless I withdraw into the haven God's love opened through His wounds on the cross. There is heart's ease, life, there dignity based on simple faith, there everyone yearns for rebirth in a far other better world. The more worldliness repels, the more I find peace in the quiet dawn and true Sun, the more I withdraw and on myself live . |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XXXV:195. See also B S1:69:119. Translation: McAuliffe 118-9. Key |
