139. ‘Quanto piú disïose l’ali spando’

O sweet crowd of friends, the more

I spread wings of desire towards you,

the more fate hampers my flight

with bird-lime, or makes me go astray.

The heart that claimed it wrong to return,

is with you always in that broad valley

where the land most hems in our sea:

I wept at parting from my heart that day.

I took the left hand road, my heart the straight:

I was forced to go, my heart was guided by love:

my heart to Jerusalem, I into Egypt.

But patience is a solace to our grief:

by long usage, it’s well-known to us both,

that being together is a rare and brief thing.