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Weak, sick, and blind, in the darkness I run to the one Sun I've always loved, appeal to Him; naked I long for golden rain; cold, and soft as wax, I draw near His flame; unsure of myself, diffident, I trust in His life-giving bounty, His vast wealth: His true warm love restores and transforms me; I hope for sanity, for inward wealth once more. Made strong I see Him, not through my but His light, and I thank him with love He gave me. The weight lifts, no longer driven wild by vain longings, quicksilver light, armed with eternity's radiant wings I fly home to Paradise with my Master. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XVIII:178. See also B S1:52:111; R VI:409. MSs L, V2. Key |
