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Like a ravenous bird who sees and hears
the whirr of his mother's sheltering wings as she descends, embraces, and feeds him, who loves the food and her, and is happy inside the nest, but frets too, consumed by his yearning to follow and fly like her, and so thanks her by singing such songs as seem beyond the tongue's power to release, am I when God's sun strengthens my heart with a warm ray--like the lightning's flash felt and vanished before we have half-glimpsed it-- the pen moves, pushed by a surge of love from within, and without realizing quite what I'm saying, I write in praise of God. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V VII:167. From B S1:46:108. Translations: Lefevre-Deumier 98; Lawley 104-5; Lind 288-9; Kay 176, Barnstone 305-6; Cosman 114; Tusiani 173; Gibaldi 40; Stortoni & Lillie 71. Key |
