[XVIII]
AL COR DI ZOLFO, ALLA CARNE DI STOPPA
The heart of sulphur and the flesh of tow,
The bones inflammable as tinder dried,
The soul without a bridle, without guide,
In liking prompt, toward joy o’erswift to go,
The reason purblind, halting, lame, and slow,
Tangled in nets wherewith the world doth teem,
No marvel ’tis, if even in a gleam
I kindle up in flame that first doth glow.