322. ‘Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte’

I’ll never see those verses where Love

seems to blaze, those Pity has created

with her own hand, with dry eyes,

or with the slightest peace of mind.

Spirit, unconquered on the grieving earth,

who now distil such sweetness from heaven,

who re-conduct my erring verses

to that style that Death interrupted:

I thought to show you further labours

from my tender leaves: but what cruel planet

envied us being together, O my noble treasure?

Who hides you from me, too soon, and denies you

you whom I see in my heart, honour with my tongue,

you in whom, sighing sweetly, the soul finds rest?