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The tender love-making, our harmony
of thought, dear union miraculously ordained by God for a peace our souls and bodies wove, knotted in exquisite joy. I sing this lovely art and its maker-- though moved by far other hope, eager, keen, would seek dissolution before I age, for him, for pleasure no more for me here. Walled up in this evil prison, hated like an enemy, my soul is confused, here is no life, there yearned-for no flight. I would know splendor, I would melt into the light which gave light to my existence: it was only through his life I knew life. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V XV:15. From Bullock A1:29:17. See also R LXVII:185. Translation: Thérault, 181-2. Key |
