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When I look out at this vast sphere of sky, first circle within God's magnificence, myself shut up in a small bit of flesh, a curious piece of earth which helps us to grasp God's majesty, grow old, I loathe, scorn my longing for some loveliness, to wander through this earth as her seasons change slowly from warm to cold, to possess all her treasures. How brief seems Apollo's song to the soul the real Sun has taught and warmed with the strange sacred lights of paradise. And no matter how wise Pallas Athene, how noble her song, she serves but to know this world, narrow self's ends, partial beauty. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XXVII:187. See also B S1:43:106. No MSs; Valgrisi 43. Key |
