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I find the colors of his flesh still fresh,
luminous. It's like looking at a light gleaming through clear glass--yet to paint what I see I have to cut myself off from life. Still Love carved his mark on me long ago so deeply I yearn, am impelled to write, while I draw back from the effort. I fear failure. Others keep away from such things. I am a shadow, my poems obscurely lit--as rain and clouds mar the sun, so my tears, my very breath tarnishes my sun's radiance. If to love him was bold of me, to fall silent may be wise--he might just disdain my frail overreaching words. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CXVII:117. See also B A2:28:69 and R V:19-20. Parallel texts: Petrarch, Sonnets 20, "Vergognando talo ch'ancor si taccia," and 308, "Quella per cui con Sorga o cangato Arno" (Durling, 54-5, 486-7). Key |
