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I thought hot intense desires in time calmed, that killing grief defeated the heart, that after seven years no-one far off would be able to hear my wretchedness; but maybe instead the pain simply grows, maybe it's the sun's ceaseless rotation-- not a pause--but I'm not crushed, and my wound aches no less: my grief scorns time, I torment. To burn for him, to cry forever is no shame: call me Faithfulness herself, at any rate she's been very dear to me. I will not alter nor abandon this rock which he loved, where I hope to fill these bitter hours as once I filled the sweet. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CXV:115. See also B A2:29:70; R LVIII:163-164. Translations: Roscoe 141; Jerrold 79-80. Key |
