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Oh my faithful sweet Comforter, I can't deny this hour, place, century are all wrong for proving to You most surely how unchanging the passion and knowledge I have carried within me such long years. Not even slightly conducive, endless beguiling diversions absenting me from you. Still all the more shall I yet fix my heart, never again turn my sail towards another haven. The world's ruins, withered stump, thorns, cruelty, shipwreck can't wrench me from God's road if I think on death. I'm but delayed by self-love, uncertainty of what's come to think I'll be forgiven |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CXXVIII:288. See also Bullock S1:97:133. Variant in MS Ve2 taken into account. Key |
