The Grave of his Lady Selvaggia, on the Monte della Sambuca)
I was on the high and blessed hill,
Where I worshipped, kissing the sacred stone,
On that rock, in weariness, bowed down,
Where Purity laid her forehead chill,
Sealing there the fount of every virtue,
When the woman of my heart, alas,
Travelled through Death’s bitter pass,
She who was accounted full of beauty.

There I called to Love, in words again:
‘Sweet Lord, let Death take me for his own,
Now, since in this place my heart was slain.’
But when my Lord showed only his disdain,
Still calling on my Selvaggia, I passed down:
Travelling the mountain with my voice of pain.