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The holy virtues in true quiet peace
dwelt, my Lord, in your wise heart, for you were their sanctuary, you kept them safe and strong; the vice-ridden could not suspect their presence. Yet you were gay: everyone said so, felt your thirst, eager to match your goodness and strength: you were a fortress; from your soil only splendour could be sown. Now I see these virtues wander across a sad obscure sky; exiled from home, they cry bitterly, tormented by the lost hope of seeing something they cannot see. Thus, my endless tears which sparkle so brightly. Such things are miracles in other hearts. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V VII:149. From B A1:81:43. Key |
