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To this torment has Love reduced my life:
the light of my life makes everything dark-- after he appears to me he leaves me burning, aching, scorched for want of him. The full beauty of this earth--seen only by the few who can see and understand-- pains, disquiets, and preys on me such that my heart aches--I cannot stop the slow tears. When I see a green meadow, I tremble: while I know he cannot come back to me, I dream he is by my side young again and beautiful--whom Death tore from me, now a corpse. Death took his brief life and left me to mourn and struggle endlessly in the dark. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V X:10 and B A1:11:8 and Visconti X, 10. See also R XL:113. Translation: Therault, 175. Key |
