|
We fear the thing we desire too much:
from within the soul rejoices, yet moans, for her eagerness hurts the heart in need, who longs to be whole fails to perceive what daring, boldness such love requires-- Then after, clear-eyed, how is this? the mind's released, all discontent is petty: bliss blots out all else, blest oblivion: ah, in my dream's greatest intensities, the false is false, truth truer than ever. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
|
Notes: V "Madrigale," 158. From B A2:48:79. In MS CASI. Translation: Jerrold, 84; McAuliffe 166. Key |
