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Alas, Holy Spirit, reach down to me, lift off this confused sense of absence, of something there I can't reach, send me some light to scatter all the shadows in my mind, and then seek out and dissolve the ice ribbed round, stir my heart. I look up but a mist, that denseness which spoils the best, blocks what light I have--my soul seeks her good but prefers loving herself to having the truth. Frail, sick as I am, for me Your light's not there, and I can't feel the Sun's omnipotence, no warmth without it. Shelter, clothe me in your wings, save--I beg of you--give me life to fly into unfathomed light and love. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CVI:266. See also B S1:127:148. No MSs; Valgrisi 128. Translation: Roscoe 324. Key |
