209. ‘I dolci colli ov’io lasciai me stesso,’

The sweet hills where I left myself,

parting from what I can never part from,

go with me, within me, I always carry

that dear burden Love entrusted to me.

In myself I wonder at myself sometimes,

always going, and yet never moving

from the lovely yoke I often strain at in vain,

and the further I move away, the more it nears.

And like a deer struck by an arrow,

with the poisoned tip in its side,

I run, more painfully the faster I flee,

so, with that shaft buried in my flank,

that destroys me and yet delights me,

I’m consumed with grief, tired with flight.