Still, with an angel guarding secretly,
The misfit child grows drunk on sunny air;
In all he drinks or eats in ecstasy
He finds sweet nectar and ambrosia there.

Free as a bird, he plays with clouds and wind,
Sings of the Passion with enraptured joy;
Tending his pilgrimage, his Guardian
Must weep to see the gladness of the boy.

Those he would love watch him with jaundiced eye,
Or, growing bold with his tranquillity,
Look for a certain way to make him cry,
Testing on him their own ferocity.

In bread and wine intended for his mouth
They muddle filthy spit with dirt and ash;
Hypocrites, all that he touches they throw out,
And blame their feet for walking in his path.

I'll set on him my frail, determined hand
When I am bored with this blasphemous farce;
My fingemails, like harpies' talons, can
Claw out a bloody pathway to his heart.

I'll dig the bright red heart out of his breast,
A pitiful and trembling baby bird;
To satisfy the dog I like the best
I'll toss it to him, with a scornful word!'

I know in Heaven there's a place for me
Kept for the poet in celestial zones,
And that I'll feast throughout eternity
With Virtues, Powers, Dominations, Thrones.

Man's sorrow is a nobleness, I trust,
Untouchable by either earth or hell;
I know to weave my mystic crown I must
Tax all the times, the universe as well.