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Perhaps to some it will seem my speaking
of eternal things, remote and hidden from mortal eyes and this earth, well beyond the glimpse of genius, argues I'm unwell. Well, we don't, I believe, have anyone meditating humbly and plainly, who looks askance at the world's pompous prizes, the golden bluffs, its useless, sham delights. The poetry of prayer and faith reveals that people desire to make deeply selfless sacrifices and this yearning is carved multifold into the heart's core. So I pray for strength to speak, for my tongue to be untied to honor these in rhyme. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V IV:164. From B S1:3:86. Key |
