265. ‘Aspro core et selvaggio, et cruda voglia’

Her savage bitter heart, and cruel will,

beneath a sweet, humble, angelic form,

however much they retain their severity,

gain slight honour from me as their prize:

when the flowers, the grasses and the leaves

are new born, and when they die again,

in broad day and darkest night, I weep on,

since fate, Love, and my lady bring me grief.

I only live on hope, remembering

I’ve seen a little water’s constant flow

wear away marble and the solid stone.

No heart’s so hard that tears, prayers,

love, can’t sometimes move it,

no will so cold that it can’t be warmed.