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I thought to sweeten each day's bitterness
by remembering my sweetheart, to make myself worthy the man who made this world beautiful, my Apollo now with God. I try to ease this weight, a torment still so dear to me, by venting this crying in poetry; it's my way of heeding the advice of those everyone respects. But I see the ceaselessly turning wheel of the fickle goddess; I see long-, or short-lived, those she flatters most, she means to crush. Alas, reason's no use to me. I cannot let this grief go, so I write for death to put a stop to this keening |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V LXXXI:81. From B A1:51:8; R CIII:296-7. Translation: Roscoe 91. Key |
