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No matter how hard I work, to what lengths
I push myself to rid me of him--but one thought brings back the old desire--we're told hard labor yields sweet fruit but I hunger and cannot resist the food my dream feeds my heart: thus effort makes life a burden while dreams ease it. Curious. Is the world's truth false? is pleasure pain? how loosen its grasp? is self-restraint my friend, or hope bliss? I pray to join him. But then I picture him on earth, and ache with longing. My mind wanders--but his light sustained me and it matters not that I am spent and tortured--I yield myself to him. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V XLIV:44. From B A1:38:22 and R LXXXIX:254, and commentary. Key |
