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Even if, Love, death is my real hope, still
I hang on, breathe the pure flame of that first encounter, the desire his first look taught me will be with me to my last hour. My life--dear God soon over--and these my reveries--long drawn out--will both end in one breath--your first dart made a mortal wound, since when I'm beyond caring, beyond fear. If loyally I do not tell my grief, my anguish cries out in a thousand ways: let me have a moment's respite before the long war. It's not that I want freedom-- but to let burning need subside a bit that more life may have some use to others. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V XXXIX:39. From B A1:48:27. See also R LXII:174. Translation: Thérault 178-9. Key |
