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With my mind's eye I see angels singing,
they replace the arrogant muses; a new nine, new beginning moving round a fiery Sun, which lights the dance, and shows the humble mind what the eternal realm is. I listen, and am lifted above my body, outside nature, I've wings so lofty, gossamer, just ahead's the Sun. But that my soul's a wanderer on earth, not worthy God's elysium, she'd know Love's complete joy, this radiance would not slip off. When more than the flesh's beauty, when honor ravage us, it's good to cry, scorn the mud which clings, the mud we grew in. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V II:162. See also B S2:1:177 and R V:407. Key |
