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Though your hours of life were few, my Lord, your encompassing infinite splendor abides: you spent yourself in sustaining the noble strength which made you immortal. In the middle of our life's road you had attained the highest honors: this because your chivalry never let your virtue swerve swerve from the good even for a moment. Relieved, freed of this world's evil burdens, you flew swiftly, lightly to Paradise, unconcerned what happened to your body. My grief restrained, his mortal weight become a noble chance, I feel a curious gaiety, and rejoice to live in pain. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XXXII:32. See also B A1:57:31; R XXII:72-73. Key |
