363. ‘Morte à spento quel sol ch’abagliar suolmi,’

Death has quenched the sun that dazzled me,

and those eyes are in the darkness, fixed, entire:

she is earth, who made me hot and cold:

my laurels are bare, like the oaks and elms:

in all this I see my good: and yet I grieve.

There’s no one now to make my thoughts

bold or timid, to make them burn or freeze,

to make them fill with hope, or brim with pain.

Out of the hand of him who hurt and healed me,

who once granted me so long a torment,

I find myself in sweet and bitter freedom:

and turn to the Lord I adore and thank,

who governs the world with a blink of his eye:

I’m weary of living, and sated with it too.