307. ‘I’ pensava assai destro esser su l’ale,’

I thought I had wings enough to take flight,

not through their power, but he who unfurled them,

equal to turning, singing, towards that lovely knot

from which Death freed me, to which Love tied me.

I found myself slow for that path, and weak

as a little branch that a great load bends,

and said: ‘He who flies too high will fall:

what heaven denies us is not good for man.’

But no wings of wit can fly, much less

a heavy style or tongue, where Nature flew

weaving that sweet knot of mine.

Love followed with so much care

in adorning her, I was not worthy

to see it even: yet it was my good fortune.