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I haven't the courage to fly where thought,
my bold pen, winged, reaches--I'm wounded, seared, what's left wasted by the hot spirit impelling, now destroying all I meant. Then you enter me, and I yield to your searching dauntless spirit, so alluring always. I gaze in weakness and lose my grasp on that vigor which enables you to soar alone. I've no ambition, no great plan. I lost hope early, uprooted the kind light turned harsh. I have learned to say: Heart give no sign. Let no one see this pain. If it's martyrdon, hide it. And then soul lie there, don't move, worship him in silence. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CIII:103. See also B S2:35:194. Until B, printed and read as a love poem: R XCII:266-7; also MS's: Bo, PaI, V1, Ve2. Translations: Lefèvre-Deumier 39; McAuliffe 85-6; Tusiani 174. Key |
