A Daily Countdown to 700 Years with the “colpi d’Amor”
“Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno, / et la stagione, e’l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto…” — Rvf 61
“Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno, / et la stagione, e’l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto…” — Rvf 61
April 5, 2026
Io amai sempre, et amo forte anchora,
et son per amar piú di giorno in giorno
quel dolce loco, ove piangendo torno
spesse fïate, quando Amor m’accora.
Et son fermo d’amare il tempo et l’ora
ch’ogni vil cura mi levâr d’intorno;
et più colei, lo cui bel viso adorno
di ben far co’ suoi exempli m’innamora.
Ma chi pensò veder mai tutti insieme
per assalirmi il core, or quindi or quinci,
questi dolci nemici, ch’i’ tant’amo?
Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!
Et se non ch’al desio cresce la speme,
i’ cadrei morto, ove più viver bramo.
I’ve always loved, and I love deeply still,
and love that sweet place more, from day
to day, where I’m often forced to return
weeping, whenever Love deceives me.
And I’m deep in love with that day and hour
when all base cares were swept from round me:
and love her more, whom a lovely face adorns,
loving to do good following her example.
But who’d think to see those sweet enemies
I love so much, combined together to attack
my heart, on this side and on that?
Love, with what forces now you conquer me!
And had not my hope grown with my desire,
I’d drop down dead where I most wish to live.
April 5, 2026
– Occhi piangete: accompagnate il core
che di vostro fallir morte sostene.
– Cosí sempre facciamo; et ne convene
lamentar piú l’altrui, che ‘l nostro errore.
– Già prima ebbe per voi l’entrata Amore,
là onde anchor come in suo albergo vène.
– Noi gli aprimmo la via per quella spene
che mosse d ‘entro da colui che more.
– Non son, come a voi par, le ragion’ pari:
ché pur voi foste ne la prima vista
del vostro et del suo mal cotanto avari.
– Or questo è quel che piú ch’altro n’atrista,
che’ perfetti giudicii son sí rari,
et d’altrui colpa altrui biasmo s’acquista.
Weep, eyes: accompany the heart
that is about to die for your failings.
‘So we are, always weeping: we must mourn
for another’s fault rather than our own.’
Yet it was through you that Love first entered,
where he still lives as though it were his home.
‘We opened the way because of that hope
that came from within that heart that is to die.’
These claims are not, as they may seem, equal:
for it was you, so eager at first sight,
who did harm to yourself, and to that one.
‘Now that is what saddens us more than anything,
that perfect judgement is so rare,
and we are blamed for another’s fault.’
April 5, 2026
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie
ch’a poco a poco par che ‘l tempo mischi,
securo non sarò, bench’io m’arrischi
talor ov’Amor l’arco tira et empie.
Non temo già che piú mi strazi o scempie,
né mi ritenga perch’anchor m’invischi,
né m’apra il cor perché di fuor l’incischi
con sue saette velenose et empie.
Lagrime omai da gli occhi uscir non ponno,
ma di gire infin là sanno il vïaggio,
sí ch’a pena fia mai ch’i’ ‘l passo chiuda.
Ben mi pò riscaldare il fiero raggio,
non sí ch’i’ arda; et può turbarmi il sonno,
ma romper no, l’imagine aspra et cruda.
If both my temples time it seems is greying
little by little are still not quite white
I’ll not be safe: I’ll still adventure where
Love sometimes aims his bow and fires.
I no longer fear he’ll maim or kill me,
or capture me, even though he traps me,
nor open up my heart because it’s pierced
by his venomous and cruel arrows.
No tears can flow now from my eyes,
though they know by now which way to flow,
since sorrow’s never closed the way to them.
I can be heated easily by fierce rays
and yet not set ablaze: that sharp, cruel form
can trouble my sleep but cannot wake me.
April 5, 2026
Io non fu’ d’amar voi lassato unquancho,
madonna, né sarò mentre ch’io viva;
ma d’odiar me medesmo giunto a riva,
et del continuo lagrimar so’ stancho;
et voglio anzi un sepolcro bello et biancho,
che ‘l vostro nome a mio danno si scriva
in alcun marmo, ove di spirto priva
sia la mia carne, che pò star seco ancho.
Però, s’un cor pien d’amorosa fede
può contentarve senza farne stracio,
piacciavi omai di questo aver mercede.
Se ‘n altro modo cerca d’esser sacio,
vostro sdegno erra, et non fia quel che crede:
di che Amor et me stesso assai ringracio.
I have never tired of love for you,
my Lady, nor will I while I live:
but hatred of my self has reached its end,
and I am weary of continual weeping:
and I’d rather have a plain stone sepulchre,
than your name be written as author of my hurt,
on some marble: where my body’s laid
without my spirit, that might still remain with you.
So, if a heart full of loving loyalty
can satisfy you, without causing harm,
favour me now by granting mercy.
If your disdain wanders some other way
seeking to be sated, and finds nothing worthy:
then Love and I will receive sufficient thanks.
April 5, 2026
Io son sí stanco sotto ‘l fascio antico
de le mie colpe et de l’usanza ria
ch’i’ temo forte di mancar tra via,
et di cader in man del mio nemico.
Ben venne a dilivrarmi un grande amico
per somma et ineffabil cortesia;
poi volò fuor de la veduta mia,
sí ch’a mirarlo indarno m’affatico.
Ma la sua voce anchor qua giú rimbomba:
O voi che travagliate, ecco ‘l camino;
venite a me, se ‘l passo altri non serra.
Qual gratia, qual amore, o qual destino
mi darà penne in guisa di colomba,
ch’i’ mi riposi, et levimi da terra?
I’m so wearied by the ancient burden,
of these faults of mine, and my sinful ways,
that I’ve a deep fear of erring on the road,
and falling into my enemy’s hands.
A great friend came to rescue me,
with noble and ineffable courtesy:
then flew away, far from my sight,
so that I strive to see him, but in vain.
But his voice still echoes down here:
‘Come unto me: all you that labour
behold the path, if no one blocks the way.’
What grace, what love, O what destiny
will grant me the wings of a dove,
to lift from the earth, and be at rest?
April 5, 2026
Chi è fermato di menar sua vita
su per l’onde fallaci et per gli scogli
scevro da morte con un picciol legno,
non pò molto lontan esser dal fine:
però sarrebbe da ritrarsi in porto
mentre al governo anchor crede la vela.
L’aura soave a cui governo et vela
commisi entrando a l’amorosa vita
et sperando venire a miglior porto,
poi mi condusse in piú di mille scogli;
et le cagion’ del mio doglioso fine
non pur d’intorno avea, ma dentro al legno.
Chiuso gran tempo in questo cieco legno
errai, senza levar occhio a la vela
ch’anzi al mio dí mi trasportava al fine;
poi piacque a lui che mi produsse in vita
chiamarme tanto indietro da li scogli
ch’almen da lunge m’apparisse il porto.
Come lume di notte in alcun porto
vide mai d’alto mar nave né legno
se non gliel tolse o tempestate o scogli,
cosí di su da la gomfiata vela
vid’io le ‘nsegne di quell’altra vita,
et allor sospirai verso ‘l mio fine.
Non perch’io sia securo anchor del fine:
ché volendo col giorno esser a porto
è gran vïaggio in cosí poca vita;
poi temo, ché mi veggio in fraile legno,
et piú che non vorrei piena la vela
del vento che mi pinse in questi scogli.
S’io esca vivo de’ dubbiosi scogli,
et arrive il mio exilio ad un bel fine,
ch’i’ sarei vago di voltar la vela,
et l’anchore gittar in qualche porto!
Se non ch’i’ ardo come acceso legno,
sí m’è duro a lassar l’usata vita.
Signor de la mia fine et de la vita,
prima ch’i’ fiacchi il legno tra gli scogli
drizza a buon porto l’affannata vela.
He who is set on living out his life
on the treacherous sea and near the rocks,
saved from death by a little vessel,
cannot be far from his own end:
unless he knows how to return to port
while the tiller still directs the sails.
The gentle breeze to which my tiller and sails
were entrusted, entering beloved life
and hoping to reach a better port,
carried me then among a thousand rocks:
and the causes of my sorrowful end
were not just outside but inside the vessel.
Trapped for a long time in this blind vessel
I wandered, not lifting my eyes to the sails
carrying me, before my time, to my end:
then it pleased Him who brought me into life
to call me back, far enough from the rocks
that some way off I could see the port.
As a light at night, burning in port,
is seen on the high seas by any vessel
if it’s not hidden by a storm or rocks,
so, from above my swelling sails,
I saw the emblem of that other life,
and then I sighed towards my end.
Not that I am yet certain of my end:
who wishes while day remains, to reach port
make’s a long voyage in so short a life:
I’m afraid, sailing so frail a vessel,
mostly I wish the wind not to fill my sails
that wind that drove me on the rocks.
If I escape alive from dangerous rocks,
and my exile comes to a good end,
I’d be content to furl my sails,
and cast anchor in any port!
If only I don’t blaze, a burning vessel:
it’s so hard for me to leave the old life.
Lord of my end, and of my life,
before my vessel shatters on the rocks,
drive me to port, with storm-tossed sails.
April 5, 2026
S’al principio risponde il fine e ‘l mezzo
del quartodecimo anno ch’io sospiro,
piú non mi pò scampar l’aura né ‘l rezzo,
sí crescer sento ‘l mio ardente desiro.
Amor, con cui pensier mai non amezzo,
sotto ‘l cui giogo già mai non respiro,
tal mi governa, ch’i’ non son già mezzo,
per gli occhi ch’al mio mal sí spesso giro.
Cosí mancando vo di giorno in giorno,
sí chiusamente, ch’i’ sol me n’accorgo
et quella che guardando il cor mi strugge.
A pena infin a qui l’anima scorgo,
né so quanto fia meco il mio soggiorno,
ché la morte s’appressa, e ‘l viver fugge.
If the middle and the end of these fourteen years,
in which I’ve sighed, should echo the beginning,
I’ll still have no more help from breeze or shade,
though I felt my passion’s flame increase.
Love, with whose thoughts I am ever one,
under whose yoke I must ever breathe,
so governs me I am only half a man,
turning my eyes too often towards my harm.
So I go wasting from day to day,
so secretly that only I’m aware
that it’s her look that destroys my heart.
I don’t know how long this final sorrow
I’ve brought the spirit to can stay with me,
since death is near, and life is fleeting.
April 5, 2026
Quando giunse a Simon l’alto concetto
ch’a mio nome gli pose in man lo stile,
s’avesse dato a l’opera gentile
colla figura voce ed intellecto,
di sospir’ molti mi sgombrava il petto,
che ciò ch’altri à piú caro, a me fan vile:
però che ‘n vista ella si mostra humile
promettendomi pace ne l’aspetto.
Ma poi ch’i’ vengo a ragionar co llei,
benignamente assai par che m’ascolte,
se risponder savesse a’ detti miei.
Pigmalïon, quanto lodar ti dêi
de l’imagine tua, se mille volte
n’avesti quel ch’i’ sol una vorrei.
When Simone had matched the high concept
I had in mind with the design beneath his hand,
if he had given to this noble work
intelligence and voice with the form,
he would have eased my heart of many sighs,
that make what’s dearer to others vile to me:
since she’s revealed to the sight, so humble,
promising peace to me in her aspect.
But when I come to speak with her,
benignly though she seems to listen,
her response to me is still lacking.
Pygmalion, what delight you had
from your creation, since the joy I wish
but once, you possessed a thousand times.
April 5, 2026
Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso
con gli altri ch’ebber fama di quell’arte
mill’anni, non vedrian la minor parte
de la beltà che m’ave il cor conquiso.
Ma certo il mio Simon fu in paradiso
(onde questa gentil donna si parte),
ivi la vide, et la ritrasse in carte
per far fede qua giú del suo bel viso.
L’opra fu ben di quelle che nel cielo
si ponno imaginar, non qui tra noi,
ove le membra fanno a l’alma velo.
Cortesia fe’; né la potea far poi
che fu disceso a provar caldo et gielo,
et del mortal sentiron gli occhi suoi.
Polyclitus gazing fixedly a thousand years
with the others who were famous in his art,
would not have seen the least part
of the beauty that has vanquished my heart.
But Simone must have been in Paradise
(from where this gentle lady came)
saw her there, and portrayed her in paint,
to give us proof here of such loveliness.
This work is truly one of those that might
be conceived in heaven, not among us here,
where we have bodies that conceal the soul.
Grace made it: he could work on it no further
when he’d descended to our heat and cold,
where his eyes had only mortal seeing.
April 5, 2026
Amor con sue promesse lusingando
mi ricondusse a la prigione antica,
et die’ le chiavi a quella mia nemica
ch’anchor me di me stesso tene in bando.
Non me n’avidi, lasso, se non quando
fui in lor forza; et or con gran fatica
(chi ‘l crederà perché giurando i’ ‘l dica?)
in libertà ritorno sospirando.
Et come vero pregioniero afflicto
de le catene mie gran parte porto,
e ‘l cor ne gli occhi et ne la fronte ò scritto.
Quando sarai del mio colore accorto,
dirai: S’i’ guardo et giudico ben dritto,
questi avea poco andare ad esser morto.
Love, with his beguiling promises
led me back to my ancient prison,
and gave the keys to my enemy
who still keeps me in exile from myself.
I did not realise it, alas, until it truly
happened, and now with great toil
(who’d believe it though I speak on oath?)
I regain my liberty with sighs.
And like a truly close-kept prisoner
I carry the marks of chains on my limbs,
and eye and forehead spell what’s in my heart.
When you are aware of my pallor,
you’ll say: ‘If I see and judge correctly,
this man was not far away from death.’
April 5, 2026
I begli occhi ond’i’ fui percosso in guisa
ch’e’ medesmi porian saldar la piaga,
et non già vertú d’erbe, o d’arte maga,
o di pietra dal mar nostro divisa,
m’ànno la via sí d’altro amor precisa,
ch’un sol dolce penser l’anima appaga;
et se la lingua di seguirlo è vaga,
la scorta pò, non ella, esser derisa.
Questi son que’ begli occhi che l’imprese
del mio signor victorïose fanno
in ogni parte, et piú sovra ‘l mio fianco;
questi son que’ begli occhi che mi stanno
sempre nel cor colle faville accese,
per ch’io di lor parlando non mi stanco.
Those lovely eyes, that struck me in such guise
that only they themselves could heal the wound,
and not the power of herbs, nor magic art,
nor some lodestone from far beyond our seas,
have so closed the road to other love,
that one sweet thought alone fills my mind:
and if my tongue wishes to pursue it,
that guide, and not the tongue is to be blamed.
Those are the lovely eyes that make
my lord’s enterprise victorious
on every side, above all my heart’s:
those are the lovely eyes that always live
in my heart among the blazing sparks,
so that speaking of them never makes me tired.
April 5, 2026
Io son già stanco di pensar sí come
i miei pensier’ in voi stanchi non sono,
et come vita anchor non abbandono
per fuggir de’ sospir’ sí gravi some;
et come a dir del viso et de le chiome
et de’ begli occhi, ond’io sempre ragiono,
non è mancata omai la lingua e ‘l suono
dí et notte chiamando il vostro nome;
et che’ pie’ non son fiaccati et lassi
a seguir l’orme vostre in ogni parte
perdendo inutilmente tanti passi;
et onde vien l’enchiostro, onde le carte
ch’i’ vo empiendo di voi: se ‘n ciò fallassi,
colpa d’Amor, non già defecto d’arte.
I am already wearied with thinking
of how my thoughts are never weary of you,
and how I’ve not abandoned life itself yet,
to flee so heavy a weight of sighs:
and how my tongue is never lacking sound
to speak of your face and your hair,
and your lovely eyes I always talk of,
calling on your name day and night:
and how my feet are never tired and weary
of following your footsteps everywhere,
spending so many paces uselessly:
and how from it comes all the ink and paper
where I go writing of you: if that is wrong,
it is Love’s fault, not a defect of my art.
April 5, 2026
Poi che per mio destino
a dir mi sforza quell’accesa voglia
che m’à sforzato a sospirar mai sempre,
Amor, ch’a ciò m’invoglia,
sia la mia scorta, e ‘nsignimi ‘l camino,
et col desio le mie rime contempre:
ma non in guisa che lo cor si stempre
di soverchia dolcezza, com’io temo,
per quel ch’i’ sento ov’occhio altrui non giugne;
ché ‘l dir m’infiamma et pugne,
né per mi’ ‘ngegno, ond’io pavento et tremo,
sí come talor sòle,
trovo ‘l gran foco de la mente scemo,
anzi mi struggo al suon de le parole,
pur com’io fusse un huom di ghiaccio al sole.
Nel cominciar credia
trovar parlando al mio ardente desire
qualche breve riposo et qualche triegua.
Questa speranza ardire
mi porse a ragionar quel ch’i’sentia:
or m’abbandona al tempo, et si dilegua.
Ma pur conven che l’alta impresa segua
continüando l’amorose note,
sí possente è ‘l voler che mi trasporta;
et la ragione è morta,
che tenea ‘l freno, et contrastar nol pote.
Mostrimi almen ch’io dica
Amor in guisa che, se mai percote
gli orecchi de la dolce mia nemica,
non mia, ma di pietà la faccia amica.
Dico: se ‘n quella etate
ch’al vero honor fur gli animi sí accesi,
l’industria d’alquanti huomini s’avolse
per diversi paesi,
poggi et onde passando, et l’onorate
cose cercando, e ‘l più bel fior ne colse,
poi che Dio et Natura et Amor volse
locar compitamente ogni virtute
in quei be’ lumi, ond’io gioioso vivo,
questo et quell’altro rivo
non conven ch’i’ trapasse, et terra mute.
A llor sempre ricorro
come a fontana d’ogni mia salute,
et quando a morte disïando corro,
sol di lor vista al mio stato soccorro.
Come a forza di vènti
stanco nocchier di notte alza la testa
a’ duo lumi ch’a sempre il nostro polo,
cosí ne la tempesta
ch’i’ sostengo d’Amor, gli occhi lucenti
sono il mio segno e ‘l mio conforto solo.
Lasso, ma troppo è piú quel ch’io ne ‘nvolo
or quinci or quindi, come Amor m’informa,
che quel che vèn da gratïoso dono;
et quel poco ch’i’ sono
mi fa di lor una perpetua norma.
Poi ch’io li vidi in prima,
senza lor a ben far non mossi un’orma:
cosí gli ò di me posti in su la cima,
che ‘l mio valor per sé falso s’estima.
I’ non poria già mai
imaginar, nonché narrar gli effecti,
che nel mio cor gli occhi soavi fanno:
tutti gli altri diletti
di questa vita ò per minori assai,
et tutte altre bellezze indietro vanno.
Pace tranquilla senza alcuno affanno:
simile a quella ch’è nel ciel eterna,
move da lor inamorato riso.
Cosí vedess’io fiso
come Amor dolcemente gli governa,
sol un giorno da presso
senza volger già mai rota superna,
né pensasse d’altrui né di me stesso,
e ‘l batter gli occhi miei non fosse spesso.
Lasso, che disïando
vo quel ch’esser non puote in alcun modo,
et vivo del desir fuor di speranza:
solamente quel nodo
ch’Amor cerconda a la mia lingua quando
l’umana vista il troppo lume avanza,
fosse disciolto, i’ prenderei baldanza
di dir parole in quel punto sí nove
che farian lagrimar chi le ‘ntendesse;
ma le ferite impresse
volgon per forza il cor piagato altrove,
ond’io divento smorto,
e ‘l sangue si nasconde, i’ non so dove,
né rimango qual era; et sonmi accorto
che questo è ‘l colpo di che Amor m’à morto.
Canzone, i’ sento già stancar la penna
del lungo et del dolce ragionar co llei,
ma non di parlar meco i pensier’ mei.
Since through destiny
the burning passion that has forced me to sigh
for so long now forces me to speak,
Love, you who create my longing,
be my guide, and show me the road,
and let my verse match my desire:
but not so that the heart may be out of tune
through overwhelming sweetness, as I fear,
because of what I feel where none can see,
since speaking strikes and inflames me:
nor do I find this great fire in my mind lessen,
as it sometimes would,
by use of intellect, at which I tremble and fear,
rather I’m consumed by the sound of words,
as a snow man is in the sun.
At the start I thought
to find some brief repose and a truce
by speaking of my ardent desire.
This hope, setting me on fire
to talk of what I felt,
abandoned me in time, and vanished.
And yet I must follow the high theme
continuing the loving notes,
so powerful the wish that drives me on:
and reason is dead
that held the reins, so nothing can oppose this.
Show me, Love, how to speak
in such a way at least that if it reach
the ears of my sweet enemy,
it might make her the friend of pity, if not of myself.
I say that in those ages
when spirits were on fire with true honour,
some men’s efforts turned
to diverse countries,
crossing hills and waves, and searching
for things of honour, and culled its finest flower,
but now that God, and Love, and Nature
wish to set every gentle virtue
in those bright eyes, through which I live in joy,
I have no need to cross
this river or that, or change countries.
I always return to them
as to the fount of all my blessings,
and when in desire I rush towards death,
the sight of them alone brings me salvation.
As the weary steersman
at night, in a rising wind, lifts his eyes
to the stars of those two Bears near the Pole,
so, in the tempest
of Love I endure, your shining eyes
are my sign, and my only comfort.
Alas, what I glimpse of them from time to time,
as Love directs me, is still more
than what is given freely to me,
and I make what little I myself
am from their eternal rule.
I have not moved a step
without them, since I first saw them:
and I hold them as the crown of my being,
taking my own value to be worthless.
I could never imagine,
nor ever tell, the effect
that those sweet eyes have on my heart:
every other delight
of this life is so much less
and every other beauty falls far behind.
Tranquil peace, without any torment,
such as lies in the eternal Heavens
comes from their loving smile.
If I could see close to,
for only one day, how Love
governs them so sweetly,
while the spheres above ceased to move,
and think of nothing else nor of myself,
and not lose them by the blinking of an eye.
Alas, how I go desiring
what can never exist in any way,
and live in desire beyond all hope:
if only that knot
with which Love ties my tongue
whenever excess of light blinds mortal sight,
were untied, I would take courage
to speak words in so new a way
it would make those who heard them weep:
but that deep piercing
turns my wounded heart elsewhere,
so I grow pale,
and the blood vanishes who knows where,
and I am not what I was: and I see
that this is the blow with which love kills me.
Song, my pen is already weary
of this long sweet speech with you,
but not my thoughts of speaking to myself.
April 5, 2026
Gentil mia donna, i’ veggio
nel mover de’ vostr’occhi un dolce lume
che mi mostra la via ch’al ciel conduce;
et per lungo costume,
dentro là dove sol con Amor seggio,
quasi visibilmente il cor traluce.
Questa è la vista ch’a ben far m’induce,
et che mi scorge al glorïoso fine;
questa sola dal vulgo m’allontana:
né già mai lingua humana
contar poria quel che le due divine
luci sentir mi fanno,
e quando ‘l verno sparge le pruine,
et quando poi ringiovenisce l’anno
qual era al tempo del mio primo affanno.
Io penso: se là suso,
onde ‘l motor eterno de le stelle
degnò mostrar del suo lavoro in terra,
son l’altr’opre sí belle,
aprasi la pregione, ov’io son chiuso,
et che ‘l camino a tal vita mi serra.
Poi mi rivolgo a la mia usata guerra,
ringratiando Natura e ‘l dí ch’io nacqui
che reservato m’ànno a tanto bene,
et lei ch’a tanta spene
alzò il mio cor: ché ‘nsin allor io giacqui
a me noioso et grave,
da quel dí inanzi a me medesmo piacqui,
empiendo d’un pensier alto et soave
quel core ond’ànno i begli occhi la chiave.
Né mai stato gioioso
Amor o la volubile Fortuna
dieder a chi piú fur nel mondo amici,
ch’i’ nol cangiassi ad una
rivolta d’occhi, ond’ogni mio riposo
vien come ogni arbor vien da sue radici.
Vaghe faville, angeliche, beatrici
de la mia vita, ove ‘l piacer s’accende
che dolcemente mi consuma et strugge:
come sparisce et fugge
ogni altro lume dove’l vostro splende,
cosí de lo mio core,
quando tanta dolcezza in lui discende,
ogni altra cosa, ogni penser va fore,
et solo ivi con voi rimanse Amore.
Quanta dolcezza unquancho
fu in cor d’aventurosi amanti, accolta
tutta in un loco, a quel ch’i’ sento è nulla,
quando voi alcuna volta
soavemente tra ‘l bel nero e ‘l biancho
volgete il lume in cui Amor si trastulla;
et credo da le fasce et da la culla
al mio imperfecto, a la Fortuna adversa
questo rimedio provedesse il cielo.
Torto mi face il velo
et la man che sí spesso s’atraversa
fra ‘l mio sommo dilecto
et gli occhi, onde dí et notte si rinversa
il gran desio per isfogare il petto,
che forma tien dal varïato aspetto.
Perch’io veggio, et mi spiace,
che natural mia dote a me non vale
né mi fa degno d’un sí caro sguardo,
sforzomi d’esser tale
qual a l’alta speranza si conface,
et al foco gentil ond’io tutt’ardo.
S’al ben veloce, et al contrario tardo,
dispregiator di quanto ‘l mondo brama
per solicito studio posso farme,
porrebbe forse aitarme
nel benigno iudicio una tal fama:
Certo il fin de’ miei pianti,
che non altronde il cor doglioso chiama,
vèn da’ begli occhi alfin dolce tremanti,
ultima speme de’ cortesi amanti.
Canzon, l’una sorella è poco inanzi,
et l’altra sento in quel medesmo albergo
apparechiarsi; ond’io piú carta vergo.
My gentle lady, I see
a sweet light that streams from your eyes
that shows me the way that leads to Heaven:
and as it is accustomed to,
in there, where I sit alone with Love,
the heart is shining almost visibly.
This is the sight that leads me to do good,
and drives me towards a glorious end,
only by this distinguished from the crowd:
no human tongue could ever
say what those two divine lights
make me feel,
and when winter scatters frost around,
and when after it the year renews
that is the time of my first troubling.
I think: if there are other works
as fine above, where the eternal Mover
of the stars leaned down from to reveal
his labours to the earth,
open the prison where I am confined,
that shuts from me the road to such life.
Then I turn again to my habitual war,
grateful to Nature and the day I was born
for reserving so much good for me,
and she who exalted my heart
with such hopes: for till then I lay
there, a harmful burden to myself,
but from that day was pleasing to myself,
filling with sweet and noble thought
that heart to which lovely eyes hold the key.
There is no joyous state
that Love or fickle Fortune ever granted
to those they loved most in the world,
that I would not exchange
for those eyes’ glance, from which there comes
my peace, as a whole tree comes from its root.
Wandering sparks of my life,
angelic, blessed, from which delight takes fire,
that consume me and sweetly destroy me:
as every other light
must flee and vanish before your splendour,
so with my heart,
when such great sweetness descends within,
all other things, all thought must go,
and only Love remains there with you.
Whatever sweetness was ever found
in the hearts of venturesome lovers, gathered
all on one place, is nothing to what I feel,
whenever you turn
the black and white of those lovely eyes,
in which Love so delights, sweetly towards me:
and I believe that from my infant cradle
this was the remedy Heaven sent
for my imperfections, and adverse Fortune.
That veil does me wrong
and that hand which so often comes
between those eyes and my great delight,
so that day and night I pour out
my deep passion to ease my heart,
that takes the form of your varying aspect.
Because I see, and am sad,
that my natural gifts help me little
and make me unworthy of a kindly glance,
I make myself such
as befits my exalted hope,
and the noble fire in which I burn.
If, despising what the world desires,
I can make myself by careful study
swift to good and slow to its contrary,
perhaps benign judgement
will one day bring me fame.
Surely the end of my weeping,
my grieving heart does not hope for from elsewhere,
will come at last from that sweet tremor of lovely eyes
the final hope of courteous lovers.
Song, one sister went a little before you,
and I sense another appearing to me
where I live: so I’ll lay out more paper.
April 5, 2026
Perché la vita è breve,
et l’ingegno paventa a l’alta impresa,
né di lui né di lei molto mi fido;
ma spero che sia intesa
là dov’io bramo, et là dove esser deve,
la doglia mia la qual tacendo i’ grido.
Occhi leggiadri dove Amor fa nido,
a voi rivolgo il mio debile stile,
pigro da sé, ma ‘l gran piacer lo sprona;
et chi di voi ragiona
tien dal soggetto un habito gentile,
che con l’ale amorose
levando il parte d’ogni pensier vile.
Con queste alzato vengo a dir or cose
ch’ò portate nel cor gran tempo ascose.
Non perch’io non m’aveggia
quanto mia laude è ‘ngiurïosa a voi:
ma contrastar non posso al gran desio,
lo quale è ‘n me da poi
ch’i’ vidi quel che pensier non pareggia,
non che l’avagli altrui parlar o mio.
Principio del mio dolce stato rio,
altri che voi so ben che non m’intende.
Quando agli ardenti rai neve divegno,
vostro gentile sdegno
forse ch’allor mia indignitate offende.
Oh, se questa temenza
non temprasse l’arsura che m’incende,
beato venir men! ché ‘n lor presenza
m’è più caro il morir che ‘l viver senza.
Dunque ch’i’ non mi sfaccia,
sí frale obgetto a sí possente foco,
non è proprio valor che me ne scampi;
ma la paura un poco,
che ‘l sangue vago per le vene agghiaccia,
risalda ‘l cor, perché piú tempo avampi.
O poggi, o valli, o fiumi, o selve, o campi,
o testimon’ de la mia grave vita,
quante volte m’udiste chiamar morte!
Ahi dolorosa sorte
lo star mi strugge, e ‘l fuggir non m’aita.
Ma se maggior paura
non m’affrenasse, via corta et spedita
trarrebbe a fin questa apra pena et dura;
et la colpa è di tal che non à cura.
Dolor perché mi meni
fuor di camin a dir quel ch’i’ non voglio?
Sostien ch’io vada ove ‘l piacer mi spigne.
Già di voi non mi doglio,
occhi sopra ‘l mortal corso sereni,
né di lui ch’a tal nodo mi distrigne.
Vedete ben quanti color’ depigne
Amor sovente in mezzo del mio volto,
et potrete pensar qual dentro fammi,
là ‘ve dí et notte stammi
adosso, col poder ch’a in voi raccolto,
luci beate et liete
se non che ‘l veder voi stesse v’è tolto;
ma quante volte a me vi rivolgete,
conoscete in altrui quel che voi siete.
S’a voi fosse sí nota
la divina incredibile bellezza
di ch’io ragiono, come a chi la mira,
misurata allegrezza
non avria ‘l cor: però forse è remota
dal vigor natural che v’apre et gira.
Felice l’alma che per voi sospira,
lumi del ciel, per li quali io ringratio
la vita che per altro non m’è a grado!
Oimè, perché sí rado
mi date quel dond’io mai non son satio?
Perché non piú sovente
mirate qual Amor di me fa stracio?
E perché mi spogliate immantanente
del ben ch’ad ora ad or l’anima sente?
Dico ch’ad ora ad ora,
vostra mercede, i’ sento in mezzo l’alma
una dolcezza inusitata et nova,
la qual ogni altra salma
di noiosi pensier’ disgombra allora,
sí che di mille un sol vi si ritrova:
quel tanto a me, non piú, del viver giova.
Et se questo mio ben durasse alquanto,
nullo stato aguagliarse al mio porrebbe;
ma forse altrui farrebbe
invido, et me superbo l’onor tanto:
però, lasso, convensi
che l’extremo del riso assaglia il pianto,
e ‘nterrompendo quelli spirti accensi
a me ritorni, et di me stesso pensi.
L’amoroso pensero
ch’alberga dentro, in voi mi si discopre
tal che mi trâ del cor ogni altra gioia;
onde parole et opre
escon di me sí fatte allor ch’i’ spero
farmi immortal, perché la carne moia.
Fugge al vostro apparire angoscia et noia,
et nel vostro partir tornano insieme.
Ma perché la memoria innamorata
chiude lor poi l’entrata,
di là non vanno da le parti extreme;
onde s’alcun bel frutto
nasce di me, da voi vien prima il seme:
io per me son quasi un terreno asciutto,
cólto da voi, e ‘l pregio è vostro in tutto.
Canzon, tu non m’acqueti, anzi m’infiammi
a dir di quel ch’a me stesso m’invola:
però sia certa de non esser sola.
Because this life is short,
and thought trembles at the high enterprise,
I place little of my trust in either:
but hope that the sorrow
I cry silently might be accepted
where I long for, and where it ought to be.
Lovely eyes where Love has made his nest,
I direct my weak verse towards you,
of itself slow, but spurred by great delight:
and he who speaks of you
takes a noble subject as his theme,
which lifts him on loving wings
far from all base thought.
Now on these wings I fly to speak
of what I’ve long carried hidden in my heart.
Not that I’m blind
as to how my praise might harm you:
but my great passion cannot be opposed,
that which was born in me
when I saw that which is beyond all thought
beyond what others have spoken, or myself.
This cause of my sweet bitter state
none can understand as well as you.
When I melt like snow in the hot sun,
your gentle disdain
is perhaps because my unworthiness offends.
Oh, if that fear
did not quench the flame where I burn,
how blessed I’d be! For in your presence
it’s sweeter to die than live without you.
While I am not consumed
so frail an object in so fierce a fire,
it’s not true worth that prevents my ruin
but a little touch of fear,
that chills the errant blood in my veins,
restoring the heart so that it burns longer.
O hills, O Valleys, O rivers, O woods, O fields,
O witnesses to my hard life,
how many times have you heard me call for death!
Ah wretched fate
staying destroys me, and fleeing is no help.
But if a greater fear
did not restrain me, a short swift way
would bring this harsh bitter pain to an end:
and the blame would be hers who does not care.
Sadness why do you lead me
out of my path, to say what I do not wish.
Allow me to go where it pleases me to go.
I don’t complain of you
eyes, bright beyond what is mortal,
nor of him who tied me in this knot.
You see what colours Love often likes to paint
in the midst of my features,
and can imagine what he does inside,
where he stands over me night and day
with the power he gathered from you,
blessed and happy lights,
except that you cannot turn to see yourselves:
though as often as you turn again to me,
you see what you are in another.
If you could only see
the divine, unbelievable beauty
that I speak of, as those who gaze can,
immeasurable happiness
would fill your heart: perhaps its natural power
is kept remote from you to spare you.
Blessed is the soul that sighs for you
heavenly lights, so that I give thanks for life
that otherwise is worthless!
Alas, why do you so rarely
grant me what does not sate me?
Why do you not more often
consider how Love wastes me?
And why do you immediately rob me
of the good that now and then my spirit feels?
I say from time to time
through your pity, I feel
a strange new sweetness in my soul,
that clears my dead weight
of harmful thoughts, so that
of a thousand only one is left:
that is alone enough to live in joy.
And if this good could stay a while
no state would be equal to mine:
though such honour maybe
would make others envious, and me proud.
Alas, that must be why
sorrow attacks laughter in the end,
and why I interrupt that burning rapture
to return to myself, and think of myself again.
The loving thought
that lives within, is revealed to me in you,
such that it draws away all other joy:
then words and deeds
arise in me so that I hope I might
be made immortal, though the flesh dies.
Anguish and pain flee at your appearance,
and meet again in me when you depart.
But since my loving memory
prevents them entering
they do not sink beyond the surface:
so that if good fruit at times
is born of me, the seed’s first sown by you:
I’m an almost sterile soil in myself,
but tilled by you, so the praise is all yours.
Song, you do not release me, but stir me
to speak of what tempts me from myself:
therefore be certain not to exist alone.
April 5, 2026
Lasso me, ch’i’ non so in qual parte pieghi
la speme, ch’è tradita omai più volte:
che se non è chi con pietà m’ascolte,
perché sparger al ciel sí spessi preghi?
Ma s’egli aven ch’anchor non mi si nieghi
finir anzi ‘l mio fine
queste voci meschine,
non gravi al mio signor perch’io il ripreghi
di dir libero un dí tra l’erba e i fiori:
Drez et rayson es qu’ieu ciant e ‘m demori.
Ragione è ben ch’alcuna volta io canti,
però ch’ò sospirato sí gran tempo
che mai non incomincio assai per tempo
per adequar col riso i dolor’ tanti.
Et s’io potesse far ch’agli occhi santi
porgesse alcun dilecto
qualche dolce mio detto,
o me beato sopra gli altri amanti!
Ma piú quand’io dirò senza mentire:
Donna mi priegha, per ch’io voglio dire.
Vaghi pensier’ che cosí passo passo
scorto m’avete a ragionar tant’alto,
vedete che madonna à ‘l cor di smalto,
sí forte ch’io per me dentro nol passo.
Ella non degna di mirar sí basso
che di nostre parole
curi, ché ‘l ciel non vòle,
al qual pur contrastando i’ son già lasso:
onde, come nel cor m’induro e n’aspro,
così nel mio parlar voglio esser aspro.
Che parlo? o dove sono? e chi m’inganna,
altri ch’io stesso e ‘l desïar soverchio?
Già s’i’trascorro il ciel di cerchio in cerchio,
nessun pianeta a pianger mi condanna.
Se mortal velo il mio veder appanna,
che colpa è de le stelle,
o de le cose belle?
Meco si sta chi dí et notte m’affanna,
poi che del suo piacer mi fe’ gir grave
la dolce vista e ‘l bel guardo soave.
Tutte le cose, di che ‘l mondo è adorno
uscïr buone de man del mastro eterno;
ma me, che cosí adentro non discerno,
abbaglia il bel che mi si mostra intorno;
et s’al vero splendor già mai ritorno,
l’occhio non po’ star fermo,
cosí l’à fatto infermo
pur la sua propria colpa, et non quel giorno
ch’i’ volsi inver’ l’angelica beltade
nel dolce tempo de la prima etade.
Ah me, I don’t know where to seek for hope
that has been false so many times before:
if there is no one who will listen with pity,
why should I send the same prayers to heaven?
But if it should chance that I’m not prevented
from ending these sad songs
before my ending,
let it not weigh heavy with my lord if I
ask to sing freely among the grass and flowers:
‘Drez et rayson es qu’ieu ciant e ‘m demori,
It’s right and just I should sing and be happy’.
For it is right that I should sing sometimes,
since I have sighed so very long
that it’s never soon enough to begin
to counter so much grief with smiles.
And if I could only grant those sacred eyes
some delight
through sweet speech of mine
Oh I’d be blessed beyond all other lovers!
More so if I could say without a lie:
‘Donna mi priegha, per ch’io volgio dire,
My lady asks me, so I desire to speak.’
Wandering thoughts, that step by step
have led me to such high poetry,
see how my lady’s heart is cold enamel,
so hardened that I cannot pass inside.
She does not deign to gaze so low
as to care for our words
against heaven’s wishes,
so that I’m already tired of the struggle:
and as my heart becomes hard and rough,
‘così nel mio parlar voglio esser aspro,
so I would wish my speech to be rougher.’
What do I say? Where am I? Do I deceive myself
because my exalted passion runs so high?
Though I traverse the sky from sphere to sphere
there is no planet that forces me to grieve.
If a mortal veil dims my sight
what fault is it of the stars,
or anything of beauty?
With me is what harms me day and night,
what brings me pain from its pleasure,
‘la dolce vista e ‘l bel guardo soave,
the sweet sight and the lovely gentle look.’
Everything with which the world’s adorned
issued pure from the eternal Maker’s hand:
but I who cannot discern how to enter in,
am dazzled by beauty shown me all around:
and whenever I turn to the real splendour,
my eyesight cannot see true,
as if it has been weakened,
through its own fault, not by the day
when I first turned towards that beauty
‘nel dolce tempo de la prima etade,
in the sweet season of my early youth.’
Notes. The last lines of the verses are quotations
in chronological order from the poetic tradition
leading to Petrarch, namely from a poem attributed
to Arnaut Daniel, from Guido Cavalcanti,
from Dante, Cino da Pistoia, and from Petrarch 23.
April 5, 2026
Ben sapeva io che natural consiglio,
Amor, contra di te già mai non valse,
tanti lacciuol’, tante impromesse false,
tanto provato avea ‘l tuo fiero artiglio.
Ma novamente, ond’io mi meraviglio
(diròl, come persona a cui ne calse,
e che ‘l notai là sopra l’acque salse,
tra la riva toscana et l’Elba et Giglio),
i’ fuggia le tue mani, et per camino,
agitandom’i vènti e ‘l ciel et l’onde,
m’andava sconosciuto et pellegrino:
quando ecco i tuoi ministri, i’ non so donde,
per darmi a diveder ch’al suo destino
mal chi contrasta, et mal chi si nasconde.
Love, I well know our natural defences
are never of any value against you,
you’ve so many snares, so many false promises,
so many grasps of your fierce claws.
But recently, what was marvellous to me
(I tell it, as someone unaware of it,
and who noted it, on those salt waters
between Elba and Giglio and the Tuscan shore),
I fled your hand, and on the passage,
driven by the wind and sky and waves,
I went unknown and as a stranger: when
behold your ministers, from who knows where,
to show me how wrong is he who hides
from destiny, and how wrong he who fights it.
April 5, 2026
L’aspetto sacro de la terra vostra
mi fa del mal passato tragger guai,
gridando: Sta’ su, misero, che fai?;
et la via de salir al ciel mi mostra.
Ma con questo pensier un altro giostra,
et dice a me: Perché fuggendo vai?
se ti rimembra, il tempo passa omai
di tornar a veder la donna nostra.
I’ che ‘l suo ragionar intendo, allora
m’agghiaccio dentro, in guisa d’uom ch’ascolta
novella che di súbito l’accora.
Poi torna il primo, et questo dà la volta:
qual vincerà, non so; ma ‘nfino ad ora
combattuto ànno, et non pur una volta.
The sacred aspect of your native place,
makes me sorrow for the evil that is past,
crying: ‘Arise, you wretch, what is it you do?’:
and shows me the way to climb to Heaven.
But with this thought another one contends
and says to me: ‘Why do you run away?
If you recall, the time now is passing
in which you might turn and see our lady.’
I understand what it says, and I turn
to ice inside, like a man who hears
news which suddenly overwhelms him.
The first thought returns, the other flies:
which will win, who knows: but they’ve fought
till now, and more than one single time.
April 5, 2026
Del mar Tirreno a la sinistra riva,
dove rotte dal vento piangon l’onde,
súbito vidi quella altera fronde
di cui conven che ‘n tante carte scriva.
Amor, che dentro a l’anima bolliva,
per rimembranza de le treccie bionde
mi spinse, onde in un rio che l’erba asconde
caddi, non già come persona viva.
Solo ov’io era tra boschetti et colli
vergogna ebbi di me, ch’al cor gentile
basta ben tanto, et altro spron non volli.
Piacemi almen d’aver cangiato stile
da gli occhi a’ pie’, se del lor esser molli
gli altri asciugasse un piú cortese aprile.
On the left shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea,
where the waves weep, broken by the wind,
I suddenly glimpsed the noble leaves
that force me to write so many pages.
Love that was seething in my spirit
through remembering that golden hair,
pushed me so I fell, as if no longer living,
into a stream hidden in the grass.
Alone though I was among the woods and hills,
shame was with me, for the gentle heart
is enough in itself, and needs no other spur.
I’m at least glad to have changed my tale
from eyes to feet, since if these are made wet
the others are dried by a more courteous April.
April 5, 2026
L’aere gravato, et l’importuna nebbia
compressa intorno da rabbiosi vènti
tosto conven che si converta in pioggia;
et già son quasi di cristallo i fiumi,
e ‘n vece de l’erbetta per le valli
non se ved’altro che pruine et ghiaccio.
Et io nel cor via piú freddo che ghiaccio
ò di gravi pensier’ tal una nebbia,
qual si leva talor di queste valli,
serrate incontra agli amorosi vènti,
et circundate di stagnanti fiumi,
quando cade dal ciel piú lenta pioggia.
In picciol tempo passa ogni gran pioggia,
e ‘l caldo fa sparir le nevi e ‘l ghiaccio,
di che vanno superbi in vista i fiumi;
né mai nascose il ciel sí folta nebbia
che sopragiunta dal furor d’i vènti
non fugisse dai poggi et da le valli.
Ma, lasso, a me non val fiorir de valli,
anzi piango al sereno et a la pioggia
et a’ gelati et a’ soavi vènti:
ch’allor fia un dí madonna senza ‘l ghiaccio
dentro, et di for senza l’usata nebbia,
ch’i’ vedrò secco il mare, e’ laghi, e i fiumi.
Mentre ch’al mar descenderanno i fiumi
et le fiere ameranno ombrose valli,
fia dinanzi a’ begli occhi quella nebbia
che fa nascer d’i miei continua pioggia,
et nel bel petto l’indurato ghiaccio
che trâ del mio sí dolorosi vènti.
Ben debbo io perdonare a tutti vènti,
per amor d’un che ‘n mezzo di duo fiumi
mi chiuse tra ‘l bel verde e ‘l dolce ghiaccio,
tal ch’i’ depinsi poi per mille valli
l’ombra ov’io fui, ché né calor né pioggia
né suon curava di spezzata nebbia.
Ma non fuggío già mai nebbia per vènti,
come quel dí, né mai fiumi per pioggia,
né ghiaccio quando ‘l sole apre le valli.
The heavy air, and the oppressive cloud,
compressed on all sides by the raging winds,
will quickly be converted into rain:
and already part-crystal are the rivers,
and where there was grass in the valleys
there’s nothing to be seen but frost and ice.
And on my heart that grows colder than ice
my heavy thoughts form such a cloud,
as sometimes rises from these valleys,
closed off from the more kindly winds,
surrounded by the slow-moving rivers,
when there falls from heaven a gentler rain.
In a little while it passes, all that heavy rain,
and the warmth disperses snow and ice,
giving a swollen surface to the rivers:
never was the sky hidden by such dense cloud
that, meeting with the fury of the winds,
it did not fly from off the hills and valleys.
But, alas, for me there are no flowering valleys,
rather I weep in clear skies or in rain,
and in the chill and in the gentle winds:
when that day comes my lady’s without ice
inside, and outside is without the usual cloud,
dry ocean will be seen, and lakes and rivers.
As long as the sea receives the rivers
and the wild creatures love the shady valleys,
her lovely eyes will be concealed by cloud
that makes in mine one continuous rain,
and in her heart the unyielding ice
which draws from mine such sighing winds.
I should be able to excuse the winds,
for love of that one, that between two rivers
confined me among sweet green and lovely ice,
so that I pictured through a thousand valleys
that shade where I was, so that no heat or rain
troubled me there nor any breaking cloud.
But never did cloud fly before the winds
as on that day, nor rivers ever with rain,
nor ice when the sun unlocks the valleys.
April 5, 2026
Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima
nel giorno ch’a ferir mi venne Amore,
ch’a passo a passo è poi fatto signore
de la mia vita, et posto in su la cima.
Io non credea per forza di sua lima
che punto di fermezza o di valore
mancasse mai ne l’indurato core;
ma cosí va, chi sopra ‘l ver s’estima.
Da ora inanzi ogni difesa è tarda,
altra che di provar s’assai o poco
questi preghi mortali Amore sguarda.
Non prego già, né puote aver piú loco,
che mesuratamente il mio cor arda,
ma che sua parte abbia costei del foco.
Alas, how unprepared I was at first
that day when Love came to wound me,
and step by step made himself the lord
of my life, and took his place at the head.
I did not think that rasping power of his
could ever lessen by a jot the firmness
or the strength of my well-tempered heart:
but so it is when we overestimate the truth.
From now on all defence comes too late,
other than to prove whether Love
listens to mortal prayers much, or little.
I do not pray, since there is no purpose,
that my heart should ever burn less fiercely,
but only that she might share part of the fire.
April 5, 2026
Se voi poteste per turbati segni,
per chinar gli occhi, o per piegar la testa,
o per esser piú d’altra al fuggir presta,
torcendo ‘l viso a’ preghi honesti et degni,
uscir già mai, over per altri ingegni,
del petto ove dal primo lauro innesta
Amor piú rami, i’ direi ben che questa
fosse giusta cagione a’ vostri sdegni:
ché gentil pianta in arido terreno
par che si disconvenga, et però lieta
naturalmente quindi si diparte;
ma poi vostro destino a voi pur vieta
l’esser altrove, provedete almeno
di non star sempre in odïosa parte.
If you, with signs of your unease,
lowering your eyes, bowing your head,
or being more ready than anyone to flee,
turning your face from honest worthy prayers,
or by some other ingenuity, seek escape
so from my heart, from which Love grafts
more branches of that first laurel, I’d agree
there was just cause for your disdain:
for a noble plant in arid soil
is embarrassed by it, so naturally
delights in being moved somewhere else:
and though your destiny prevents you
being elsewhere, you can at least provide
that you’re not always somewhere you hate.
April 5, 2026
Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore
che fa di morte rimembrar la gente,
pietà vi mosse; onde, benignamente
salutando, teneste in vita il core.
La fraile vita, ch’ancor meco alberga,
fu de’ begli occhi vostri aperto dono,
et de la voce angelica soave.
Da lor conosco l’esser ov’io sono:
ché, come suol pigro animal per verga,
cosí destaro in me l’anima grave.
Del mio cor, donna, l’una et l’altra chiave
avete in mano; et di ciò son contento,
presto di navigare a ciascun vento,
ch’ogni cosa da voi m’è dolce honore.
Turning your eyes on my strange colour
that sets people thinking of death,
pity moved you: so that, greeting me
with kindness, you have kept my heart alive.
That frail life, that still exists in me
was the clear gift of your lovely eyes,
and your voice, angelically sweet.
I recognise my being comes from them:
for like a lazy beast stirred by a stick,
they likewise woke my heavy mind.
Lady, you have both the keys of my heart
in your hand: and I am content,
ready to sail with every breeze:
everything of yours is sweet honour to me.
April 5, 2026
Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni,
dopo le notti vaneggiando spese,
con quel fero desio ch’al cor s’accese,
mirando gli atti per mio mal sí adorni,
piacciati omai col Tuo lume ch’io torni
ad altra vita et a piú belle imprese,
sí ch’avendo le reti indarno tese,
il mio duro adversario se ne scorni.
Or volge, Signor mio, l’undecimo anno
ch’i’ fui sommesso al dispietato giogo
che sopra i piú soggetti è piú feroce.
Miserere del mio non degno affanno;
reduci i pensier’ vaghi a miglior luogo;
ramenta lor come oggi fusti in croce.
Heavenly Father, after the lost days,
after the nights spent wandering,
with that fierce desire that burned in my heart,
gazing on limbs adorned to do me harm,
now may it please you by Your light I turn
to the greater life and the sweeter work,
so that my harsh adversary having cast
his nets in vain, may be discredited.
Now, my Lord, the eleventh year revolves
since I was bowed under that pitiless yoke,
which to those most subject to it is most fierce.
Have pity on my unworthy suffering:
lead back my wandering thoughts to a better place:
remind them how you hung, today, upon the cross.
April 5, 2026
Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno,
et la stagione, e ‘l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto,
e ‘l bel paese, e ‘l loco ov’io fui giunto
da’duo begli occhi che legato m’ànno;
et benedetto il primo dolce affanno
ch’i’ ebbi ad esser con Amor congiunto,
et l’arco, et le saette ond’i’ fui punto,
et le piaghe che ‘nfin al cor mi vanno.
Benedette le voci tante ch’io
chiamando il nome de mia donna ò sparte,
e i sospiri, et le lagrime, e ‘l desio;
et benedette sian tutte le carte
ov’io fama l’acquisto, e ‘l pensier mio,
ch’è sol di lei, sí ch’altra non v’à parte.
Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year,
and the season, and the time, and the hour, and the moment,
and the beautiful country, and the place where I was joined
to the two beautiful eyes that have bound me:
and blessed be the first sweet suffering
that I felt in being conjoined with Love,
and the bow, and the shafts with which I was pierced,
and the wounds that run to the depths of my heart.
Blessed be all those verses I scattered
calling out the name of my lady,
and the sighs, and the tears, and the passion:
and blessed be all the sheets
where I acquire fame, and my thoughts,
that are only of her, that no one else has part of.
April 5, 2026
L’arbor gentil che forte amai molt’anni,
mentre i bei rami non m’ebber a sdegno
fiorir faceva il mio debile ingegno
e la sua ombra, et crescer negli affanni.
Poi che, securo me di tali inganni,
fece di dolce sé spietato legno,
i’ rivolsi i pensier’ tutti ad un segno,
che parlan sempre de’ lor tristi danni.
Che porà dir chi per amor sospira,
s’altra speranza le mie rime nove
gli avessir data, et per costei la perde?
Né poeta ne colga mai, né Giove
la privilegi, et al Sol venga in ira,
tal che si secchi ogni sua foglia verde.
The gentle tree that I’ve loved many years,
while it’s lovely branches did not disdain me
made my feeble intellect flower beneath
its shade, and all my anxieties increase.
When, while I suspected no such deceit,
from sweetness it turned itself to pitiless wood,
I turned all my thoughts to one purpose,
to speak endlessly of that sad harm.
What can he say who sighs because of love,
if my new rhymes have given him fresh hope,
hope that now, because of her, he loses?
Let no poet gather it now, nor Jupiter
favour it, and let Apollo’s sun blaze in anger,
so that it withers all those green leaves.
April 5, 2026
Perché quel che mi trasse ad amar prima,
altrui colpa mi toglia,
del mio fermo voler già non mi svoglia.
Tra le chiome de l’òr nascose il laccio,
al qual mi strinse, Amore;
et da’ begli occhi mosse il freddo ghiaccio,
che mi passò nel core,
con la vertú d’un súbito splendore,
che d’ogni altra sua voglia
sol rimembrando anchor l’anima spoglia.
Tolta m’è poi di que’ biondi capelli,
lasso, la dolce vista;
e ‘l volger de’ duo lumi honesti et belli
col suo fuggir m’atrista;
ma perché ben morendo honor s’acquista,
per morte né per doglia
non vo’ che da tal nodo Amor mi scioglia.
Though another’s fault takes me away
from what drew me to my first bitterness,
I am not moved from my fixed desire.
Love hid the noose he caught me with
among that golden hair:
and cold ice came from those lovely eyes
that passed into my heart,
with the power of a sudden splendour,
that, merely remembering it, all other wishes
are driven from my soul.
Alas, since then, the sweet sight of that blonde hair
has been taken from me:
and the vanishing of those two true and lovely eyes
has saddened me with their flight:
but since dying well brings us honour,
despite grief or death,
I do not wish Love to loose me from this knot.
April 5, 2026
La guancia che fu già piangendo stancha
riposate su l’un, signor mio caro,
et siate ormai di voi stesso piú avaro
a quel crudel che ‘ suoi seguaci imbiancha.
Coll’altro richiudete da man mancha
la strada a’ messi suoi ch’indi passaro,
mostrandovi un d’agosto et di genaro,
perch’a la lunga via tempo ne mancha.
E col terzo bevete un suco d’erba
che purghe ogni pensier che ‘l cor afflige,
dolce a la fine, et nel principio acerba.
Me riponete ove ‘l piacer si serba,
tal ch’i’ non tema del nocchier di Stige,
se la preghiera mia non è superba.
My dear lord, rest that cheek of yours
already tired with weeping, on my first gift,
be more careful of yourself with that cruel one
who makes pallid all those who follow him.
With the second, block with your left hand
the path that his messengers pass along,
appear the same in August as January,
so as not to lose your time on the long road.
And drink a herbal mixture from the third,
to purge away all thought that pains the heart,
sweet at the last, though the start is bitter.
Keep me where all your pleasures are stored,
so I will not fear the Stygian ferryman,
if the request I make does not seem proud.
Note: Sent to Agapito Colonna, Bishop of Luni
with the gifts presumably of a pillow, book, and cup.
The poem has indeed evaded Charon so far.
April 5, 2026
Mie venture al venir son tarde et pigre,
la speme incerta, e ‘l desir monta et cresce,
onde e ‘l lassare et l’aspectar m’incresce;
et poi al partir son piú levi che tigre.
Lasso, le nevi fien tepide et nigre,
e ‘l mar senz’onda, et per l’alpe ogni pesce,
et corcherassi il sol là oltre ond’esce
d’un medesimo fonte Eufrate et Tigre,
prima ch’i’ trovi in ciò pace né triegua,
o Amore o madonna altr’uso impari,
che m’ànno congiurato a torto incontra.
Et s’i’ ò alcun dolce, è dopo tanti amari,
che per disdegno il gusto si dilegua:
altro mai di lor gratie non m’incontra.
My luck is always late and slow to reach me,
hope is uncertain, desire grows and increases,
so that I grieve with loss or anticipation,
and it is quicker than a tigress to depart.
Alas, snow will be black and hot,
the sea without waves, fish on the hills,
and the sun set where Tigris and Euphrates
issue together from their source,
before I can find peace in my mind,
or Love or my lady alter their ways,
who have joined in wrong against me.
And any sweetness follows such bitterness
that through disdain the taste is lost:
I will never know what’s better from them.
April 5, 2026
Se col cieco desir che ‘l cor distrugge
contando l’ore no m’inganno io stesso,
ora mentre ch’io parlo il tempo fugge
ch’a me fu inseme et a mercé promesso.
Qual ombra è sí crudel che ‘l seme adugge,
ch’al disïato frutto era sí presso?
et dentro dal mio ovil qual fera rugge?
tra la spiga et la man qual muro è messo?
Lasso, nol so; ma sí conosco io bene
che per far piú dogliosa la mia vita
amor m’addusse in sí gioiosa spene.
Et or di quel ch’i’ ò lecto mi sovene,
che ‘nanzi al dí de l’ultima partita
huom beato chiamar non si convene.
If, through blind desire that destroys the heart,
I do not deceive myself counting the hours,
now, while I speak these words, the time nears
that was promised to pity and myself.
What shade is so cruel as to blight the crop
which was so near to a lovely harvest?
And what wild beast is roaring in my fold?
What wall is set between the hand and grain?
Ah, I do not know: but I see only too well
that in joyous hope love led me on
only to make my life more sorrowful.
And now I remember words that I have read:
before the day of our final parting
we should not call any man blessed.
April 5, 2026
Quel foco ch’i’ pensai che fosse spento
dal freddo tempo et da l’età men fresca,
fiamma et martir ne l’anima rinfresca.
Non fur mai tutte spente, a quel ch’i’ veggio,
ma ricoperte alquanto le faville,
et temo no ‘l secondo error sia peggio.
Per lagrime ch’i’ spargo a mille a mille
conven che ‘l duol per gli occhi si distille
dal cor, ch’à seco le faville et l’ésca:
non pur qual fu, ma pare a me che cresca.
Qual foco non avrian già spento et morto
l’onde che gli occhi tristi versan sempre?
Amor, avegna mi sia tardi accorto,
vòl che tra duo contrari mi distempre;
et tende lacci in sí diverse tempre,
che quand’ò piú speranza che ‘l cor n’esca,
allor piú nel bel viso mi rinvesca.
That fire that I thought had been quenched
by chill time and declining years,
rekindles flame and suffering in the soul.
They were not wholly spent, as I can see,
those last embers, but covered over,
and I fear this second error will be worse.
With all the thousands of tears I weep
sorrow flowing from my heart distils
from my eyes: sparks and tinder are with me:
it is not as it was, but seems to flare higher.
What fire would not by now be spent and dead
on which these sad eyes were always turned?
Love, though I have been so slow to see it,
stretches me between two contraries:
and spreads his nets in such diverse ways,
that when I’ve most hope my heart will escape,
I can no longer retreat from her lovely face.
April 5, 2026
Perch’al viso d’Amor portava insegna,
mosse una pellegrina il mio cor vano,
ch’ogni altra mi parea d’onor men degna.
Et lei seguendo su per l’erbe verdi,
udí’ dir alta voce di lontano:
Ahi, quanti passi per la selva perdi!
Allor mi strinsi a l’ombra d’un bel faggio,
tutto pensoso; et rimirando intorno,
vidi assai periglioso il mio vïaggio;
et tornai indietro quasi a mezzo ‘l giorno.
Because she bore Love’s emblems in her aspect,
a pilgrim, she vainly moved my heart,
so that all others seemed less worthy of honour.
And I followed her over the green grass:
hearing a loud voice from the distance:
‘Ah, how many steps you lose in this wood!’
I crouched in the shade of a lovely beech,
pensively: and looking all around me,
I saw many dangers on my road:
and turned back, almost at the point of noon.
April 5, 2026
Spirto gentil, che quelle membra reggi
dentro le qua’ peregrinando alberga
un signor valoroso, accorto et saggio,
poi che se’ giunto a l’onorata verga
colla qual Roma et i suoi erranti correggi,
et la richiami al suo antiquo vïaggio,
io parlo a te, però ch’altrove un raggio
non veggio di vertú, ch’al mondo è spenta,
né trovo chi di mal far si vergogni.
Che s’aspetti non so, né che s’agogni,
Italia, che suoi guai non par che senta:
vecchia, otïosa et lenta,
dormirà sempre, et non fia chi la svegli?
Le man’ l’avess’io avolto entro’ capegli.
Non spero che già mai dal pigro sonno
mova la testa per chiamar ch’uom faccia,
sí gravemente è oppressa et di tal soma;
ma non senza destino a le tue braccia,
che scuoter forte et sollevarla ponno,
è or commesso il nostro capo Roma.
Pon’ man in quella venerabil chioma
securamente, et ne le treccie sparte,
sí che la neghittosa esca del fango.
I’ che dí et notte del suo strazio piango,
di mia speranza ò in te la maggior parte:
che se ‘l popol di Marte
devesse al proprio honore alzar mai gli occhi,
parmi pur ch’a’ tuoi dí la gratia tocchi.
L’antiche mura ch’anchor teme et ama
et trema ‘l mondo, quando si rimembra
del tempo andato e ‘n dietro si rivolve,
e i sassi dove fur chiuse le membra
di ta’ che non saranno senza fama,
se l’universo pria non si dissolve,
et tutto quel ch’una ruina involve,
per te spera saldar ogni suo vitio.
O grandi Scipïoni, o fedel Bruto,
quanto v’aggrada, s’egli è anchor venuto
romor là giú del ben locato officio!
Come cre’ che Fabritio
si faccia lieto, udendo la novella!
Et dice: Roma mia sarà anchor bella.
Et se cosa di qua nel ciel si cura,
l’anime che lassú son citadine,
et ànno i corpi abandonati in terra,
del lungo odio civil ti pregan fine,
per cui la gente ben non s’assecura,
onde ‘l camin a’ lor tecti si serra:
che fur già sí devoti, et ora in guerra
quasi spelunca di ladron’ son fatti,
tal ch’a’ buon’ solamente uscio si chiude,
et tra gli altari et tra le statue ignude
ogni impresa crudel par che se tratti.
Deh quanto diversi atti!
Né senza squille s’incommincia assalto,
che per Dio ringraciar fur poste in alto.
Le donne lagrimose, e ‘l vulgo inerme
de la tenera etate, e i vecchi stanchi
ch’ànno sé in odio et la soverchia vita,
e i neri fraticelli e i bigi e i bianchi,
coll’altre schiere travagliate e ‘nferme,
gridan: O signor nostro, aita, aita.
Et la povera gente sbigottita
ti scopre le sue piaghe a mille a mille,
ch’Anibale, non ch’altri, farian pio.
Et se ben guardi a la magion di Dio
ch’arde oggi tutta, assai poche faville
spegnendo, fien tranquille
le voglie, che si mostran sí ‘nfiammate,
onde fien l’opre tue nel ciel laudate.
Orsi, lupi, leoni, aquile et serpi
ad una gran marmorea colomna
fanno noia sovente, et a sé danno.
Di costor piange quella gentil donna
che t’à chiamato a ciò che di lei sterpi
le male piante, che fiorir non sanno.
Passato è già piú che ‘l millesimo anno
che ‘n lei mancâr quell’anime leggiadre
che locata l’avean là dov’ell’era.
Ahi nova gente oltra misura altera,
irreverente a tanta et a tal madre!
Tu marito, tu padre:
ogni soccorso di tua man s’attende,
ché ‘l maggior padre ad altr’opera intende.
Rade volte adiven ch’a l’alte imprese
fortuna ingiurïosa non contrasti,
ch’agli animosi fatti mal s’accorda.
Ora sgombrando ‘l passo onde tu intrasti,
famisi perdonar molt’altre offese,
ch’almen qui da se stessa si discorda:
però che, quanto ‘l mondo si ricorda,
ad huom mortal non fu aperta la via
per farsi, come a te, di fama eterno,
che puoi drizzar, s’i’ non falso discerno,
in stato la piú nobil monarchia.
Quanta gloria ti fia
dir: Gli altri l’aitâr giovene et forte;
questi in vecchiezza la scampò da morte.
Sopra ‘l monte Tarpeio, canzon, vedrai
un cavalier, ch’Italia tutta honora,
pensoso piú d’altrui che di se stesso.
Digli: Un che non ti vide anchor da presso,
se non come per fama huom s’innamora,
dice che Roma ognora
con gli occhi di dolor bagnati et molli
ti chier mercé da tutti sette i colli.
Gentle spirit, that rules those members
in which a pilgrim lives,
a brave lord, shrewd and wise,
now you have taken up the ivory sceptre
with which you punish Rome and her wrongdoers,
and recall her to her ancient ways,
I speak to you, because I see no other ray
of virtue that is quenched from the world,
nor do I find men ashamed of doing wrong.
I don’t know what Italy expects or hopes for,
she seems not to feel her trouble,
old, lazy, slow,
will she sleep forever, no one to wake her?
I should grasp her by the hair with my hand.
I’ve no hope she’ll ever move her head
in lazy slumber whatever noise men make,
so heavily is she oppressed and by such a sleep:
not without the destiny in your right hand,
that can shake her fiercely and waken her,
now the guide of our Rome.
Set your hand to her venerable locks
and scattered tresses with firmness,
so that this sluggard might escape the mire.
I who weep for her torment day and night,
place the greater part of my hopes in you:
for if the people of Mars
ever come to lift their eyes to true honour,
I think that grace will touch them in your days.
Those ancient walls the world still fears and loves
and trembles at, whenever it recalls
past times and looks around,
and those tombs that enclose the dust
of those who will never lack fame
until the universe itself first dissolves,
and all is involved in one great ruin,
trust in you to heal all their ills.
O famous Scipios, o loyal Brutus,
how pleased you must be, if the rumour has yet
reached you there, of this well-judged appointment!
I think indeed Fabricius
will be delighted to hear the news!
And will say: ‘My Rome will once more be beautiful!’
And if Heaven cares for anything down here,
the souls, that up there are citizens,
and have abandoned their bodies to earth,
pray you to put an end to civil hatred,
that means the people have no real safety:
so the way to their temples that once
were so frequented is blocked, and now
they have almost become thieves’ dens in this strife,
so that their doors are only closed against virtue,
and amongst the altars and the naked statues
they commit every savage act.
Ah what alien deeds!
And no assault begun without a peal of bells
that were hung on high in thanks to God.
Weeping women, the defenceless children
of tender years, and the wearied old
who hate themselves and their burdened life,
and the black friars, the grey and the white,
with a crowd of others troubled and infirm,
cry: ‘O Lord, help us, help us.’
And the poor citizens dismayed
show you their wounds, thousand on thousands,
that Hannibal, no less, would pity them.
And if you gaze at the mansion of God
that is all ablaze today, if you stamped out
a few sparks, the will would become calm,
that shows itself so inflamed,
then your work would be praised to the skies.
Bears, wolves, lions, eagles and serpents
commit atrocities against a great
marble column, and harm themselves by it.
Because this gentle lady grieves at it,
she calls to you that you may root out
those evil plants that will never flower.
For more than a thousand years now
she has lacked those gracious spirits
who had placed her where she was.
Ah, you new people, proud by any measure,
lacking in reverence for such and so great a mother!
You, be husband and father:
all help is looked for from your hands,
for the Holy Father attends to other things.
It rarely happens that injurious fortune
is not opposed to the highest enterprises,
when hostile fate is in tune with ill.
But now clearing the path you take,
she makes me pardon many other offences,
being out of sorts with herself:
so that in all the history of the world
the way was never so open to a mortal man
to achieve, as you can, immortal fame,
by helping a nobler monarchy, if I
am not mistaken, rise to its feet.
What glory will be yours, to hear:
‘Others helped her when she was young and strong:
this one saved her from death in her old age.’
On the Tarpeian Rock, my song, you’ll see
a knight, whom all Italy honours,
thinking of others more than of himself.
Say to him: ‘One who has not seen you close to,
and only loves you from your human fame,
tells you that all of Rome
with eyes wet and bathed with sorrow,
begs mercy of you from all her seven hills.’
April 5, 2026
Non al suo amante piú Dïana piacque,
quando per tal ventura tutta ignuda
la vide in mezzo de le gelide acque,
ch’a me la pastorella alpestra et cruda
posta a bagnar un leggiadretto velo,
ch’a l’aura il vago et biondo capel chiuda,
tal che mi fece, or quand’egli arde ‘l cielo,
tutto tremar d’un amoroso gielo.
Diana was not more pleasing to her lover,
when by chance he saw her all naked
in the midst of icy waters,
than, to me, the fresh mountain shepherdess,
set there to wash a graceful veil,
that ties her vagrant blonde hair from the breeze,
so that she makes me, now that the heavens burn,
tremble, wholly, with the chill of love.
April 5, 2026
Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi miei
la luce che da lunge gli abbarbaglia,
che, come vide lei cangiar Thesaglia,
cosí cangiato ogni mia forma avrei.
Et s’io non posso transformarmi in lei
piú ch’i’ mi sia (non ch’a mercé mi vaglia),
di qual petra piú rigida si ‘ntaglia
pensoso ne la vista oggi sarei,
o di diamante, o d’un bel marmo biancho,
per la paura forse, o d’un dïaspro,
pregiato poi dal vulgo avaro et scioccho;
et sarei fuor del grave giogo et aspro,
per cui i’ ò invidia di quel vecchio stancho
che fa con le sue spalle ombra a Marroccho.
If the light had neared my eyes a little
that dazzles me even when far away,
then, as she changed her form in Thessaly,
I would have changed my form completely.
And since I could not be transformed to be
more hers than I am already (not that it gains me pity),
I think my aspect today would be
carved from whatever stone is hardest,
from diamond, or from a fine marble, white
perhaps through fear, or from rock-crystal,
praised by the greedy and foolish crowd:
and be free of this savage and heavy yoke,
because of which I even envy that old man,
Atlas, whose shoulders shadow Morocco.
April 5, 2026
Ne la stagion che ‘l ciel rapido inchina
verso occidente, et che ‘l dí nostro vola
a gente che di là forse l’aspetta,
veggendosi in lontan paese sola,
la stancha vecchiarella pellegrina
raddoppia i passi, et piú et piú s’affretta;
et poi cosí soletta
al fin di sua giornata
talora è consolata
d’alcun breve riposo, ov’ella oblia
la noia e ‘l mal de la passata via.
Ma, lasso, ogni dolor che ‘l dí m’adduce
cresce qualor s’invia
per partirsi da noi l’eterna luce.
Come ‘l sol volge le ‘nfiammate rote
per dar luogo a la notte, onde discende
dagli altissimi monti maggior l’ombra,
l’avaro zappador l’arme riprende,
et con parole et con alpestri note
ogni gravezza del suo petto sgombra;
et poi la mensa ingombra
di povere vivande,
simili a quelle ghiande,
le qua’ fuggendo tutto ‘l mondo honora.
Ma chi vuol si rallegri ad ora ad ora,
ch’i’ pur non ebbi anchor, non dirò lieta,
ma riposata un’hora,
né per volger di ciel né di pianeta.
Quando vede ‘l pastor calare i raggi
del gran pianeta al nido ov’egli alberga,
e ‘nbrunir le contrade d’orïente,
drizzasi in piedi, et co l’usata verga,
lassando l’erba et le fontane e i faggi,
move la schiera sua soavemente;
poi lontan da la gente
o casetta o spelunca
di verdi frondi ingiuncha:
ivi senza pensier’ s’adagia et dorme.
Ahi crudo Amor, ma tu allor piú mi ‘nforme
a seguir d’una fera che mi strugge,
la voce e i passi et l’orme,
et lei non stringi che s’appiatta et fugge.
E i naviganti in qualche chiusa valle
gettan le menbra, poi che ‘l sol s’asconde,
sul duro legno, et sotto a l’aspre gonne.
Ma io, perché s’attuffi in mezzo l’onde,
et lasci Hispagna dietro a le sue spalle,
et Granata et Marroccho et le Colonne,
et gli uomini et le donne
e ‘l mondo et gli animali
aquetino i lor mali,
fine non pongo al mio obstinato affanno;
et duolmi ch’ogni giorno arroge al danno,
ch’i’ son già pur crescendo in questa voglia
ben presso al decim’anno,
né poss’indovinar chi me ne scioglia.
Et perché un poco nel parlar mi sfogo,
veggio la sera i buoi tornare sciolti
da le campagne et da’ solcati colli:
i miei sospiri a me perché non tolti
quando che sia? perché no ‘l grave giogo?
perché dí et notte gli occhi miei son molli?
Misero me, che volli
quando primier sí fiso
gli tenni nel bel viso
per iscolpirlo imaginando in parte
onde mai né per forza né per arte
mosso sarà, fin ch’i’ sia dato in preda
a chi tutto diparte!
Né so ben ancho che di lei mi creda.
Canzon, se l’esser meco
dal matino a la sera
t’à fatto di mia schiera,
tu non vorrai mostrarti in ciascun loco;
et d’altrui loda curerai sí poco,
ch’assai ti fia pensar di poggio in poggio
come m’à concio ‘l foco
di questa viva petra, ov’io m’appoggio.
At the moment when the swift sky turns
towards the west, and our day flies
to people beyond, perhaps, who see it there,
the weary old woman on a pilgrimage
finding herself alone in a far country,
redoubles her steps, and hurries more and more:
and then so alone
at the end of her day
is sometimes consoled
with brief repose that lets her forget
the troubles and the evils of the way.
But, alas, every grief the day brings me,
grows when the eternal light
begins to depart from us.
While the sun turns his fiery wheel
to give space to the night,
while darker shadows fall from the highest peaks,
the greedy peasant gathers his tools,
and with the speech and music of the mountains,
frees every heaviness from his heart:
and then sets out the meal
of an impoverished life,
like those acorns in the Golden Age
that all the world rejects but honours.
But let whoever will be happy hour on hour
since I have never yet had rest an hour,
not to speak of happiness,
despite the wheeling of the sky and stars.
When the shepherd sees the rays
of the great star sink to the nest where they hide,
darkening the eastern landscape,
he rises to his feet, and with his usual staff,
leaving the grass, the fountains and the beeches,
gently moves his flock:
far from other men
in cave or hut,
he scatters green leaves,
and without thought lies down to sleep.
Ah cruel Love, instead you drive me on
to follow the sound, the path and the traces,
of a wild creature that consumes me,
one I cannot catch, that hides and flees.
And the sailors in some enclosed bay
as the sun vanishes, throw their limbs
on the hard boards, still in their soiled clothes.
But though he dives into the deep waves,
and leaves Spain behind his back,
Granada, and Morocco and the Pillars,
and men and women,
earth and its creatures,
are free of their ills,
I never put an end to my lasting trouble:
and grieve that every day adds to my harm,
already my passion has been growing
for nearly ten long years,
and I can’t imagine who could free me.
And, since speaking comforts me a little,
I see the oxen turn homewards in the evening,
from the fields and the furrows they have ploughed:
why has my sighing not been taken from me
at any time? Why not my heavy yoke?
Why are my eyes wet day and night?
Wretch that I am, what did I wish
when I first gazed
at that lovely face so fixedly
when I carved her image in that part
from which no force or art
can ever move it, till I am given as prey
to him who scatters all!
Nor even then can I say anything about him.
Song, if being with me
from dawn to evening
has made you of my company,
you’ll not wish to show yourself everywhere:
and you’ll care so little for other’s praise,
it’s enough for you to take thought, from hill to hill,
of how I’m scorched by fire
from this living stone, on which I lean.
April 5, 2026
Perch’io t’abbia guardato di menzogna
a mio podere et honorato assai,
ingrata lingua, già però non m’ài
renduto honor, ma facto ira et vergogna:
ché quando piú ‘l tuo aiuto mi bisogna
per dimandar mercede, allor ti stai
sempre piú fredda, et se parole fai,
son imperfecte, et quasi d’uom che sogna.
Lagrime triste, et voi tutte le notti
m’accompagnate, ov’io vorrei star solo,
poi fuggite dinanzi a la mia pace;
et voi sí pronti a darmi angoscia et duolo,
sospiri, allor traete lenti et rotti:
sola la vista mia del cor non tace.
Though I’ve protected you from lying,
and have allowed you honourable speech,
ungrateful tongue you’ve not returned the honour,
but caused me anger and embarrassment:
and the more I’m in need of your help
to ask for mercy, the more frozen you are
and the words you make sound imperfect
like those made by a man in dreams.
And you, sad tears, you stay with me
all night, when I wish to be alone,
then vanish before the face of my peace:
And you, sighs, so ready to bring me anguish
and grief, issue slowly and brokenly then,
so that only my look’s not silent about my heart.
April 5, 2026
Se mai foco per foco non si spense,
né fiume fu già mai secco per pioggia,
ma sempre l’un per l’altro simil poggia,
et spesso l’un contrario l’altro accense,
Amor, tu che’ pensier’ nostri dispense,
al qual un’alma in duo corpi s’appoggia,
perché fai in lei con disusata foggia
men per molto voler le voglie intense?
Forse sí come ‘l Nil d’alto caggendo
col gran suono i vicin’ d’intorno assorda,
e ‘l sole abbaglia chi ben fiso ‘l guarda,
cosí ‘l desio che seco non s’accorda,
ne lo sfrenato obiecto vien perdendo,
et per troppo spronar la fuga è tarda.
Since fire is never quenched with fire,
nor rivers ever dried by the rain,
but a thing’s always increased by its like,
and sometimes its opposite makes it blaze higher,
Love, who have power over my thoughts,
and nourish one soul in two bodies,
why do you there obey a different rule,
making desire weaken by desire?
Perhaps like the great falls along the Nile
that deafen those around with their vast roar,
or the sun that dazzles those who gaze too hard,
so desire that is not in tune with itself,
unrestrained in its object, comes to grief,
and by spurring hard its speed is slowed.
April 5, 2026
Io sentia dentr’al cor già venir meno
gli spirti che da voi ricevon vita;
et perché natural-mente s’aita
contra la morte ogni animal terreno,
largai ‘l desio, ch’i teng’or molto a freno,
et misil per la via quasi smarrita:
però che dí et notte indi m’invita,
et io contra sua voglia altronde ‘l meno.
Et mi condusse, vergognoso et tardo,
a riveder gli occhi leggiadri, ond’io
per non esser lor grave assai mi guardo.
Vivrommi un tempo omai, ch’al viver mio
tanta virtute à sol un vostro sguardo;
et poi morrò, s’io non credo al desio.
I felt those spirits weakening in my heart
that receive their life from you:
and since every earthly creature
naturally protects itself from death,
loosed my desire, that now I rein in hard,
and sent it by a road that is almost lost:
so that it draws me there, day and night,
and I lead it, against its will, another way.
And it brought me, slowly and shamefully,
to look on those delightful eyes, that I
guard myself from so they may not grow cold.
Now I’ll live a while, since a mere glance of yours
has so much power to bring me to life:
then I’ll die, if I don’t follow my desire.
April 5, 2026
L’oro et le perle e i fior’ vermigli e i bianchi,
che ‘l verno devria far languidi et secchi,
son per me acerbi et velenosi stecchi,
ch’io provo per lo petto et per li fianchi.
Però i dí miei fien lagrimosi et manchi,
ché gran duol rade volte aven che ‘nvecchi:
ma piú ne colpo i micidiali specchi,
che ‘n vagheggiar voi stessa avete stanchi.
Questi poser silentio al signor mio,
che per me vi pregava, ond’ei si tacque,
veggendo in voi finir vostro desio;
questi fuor fabbricati sopra l’acque
d’abisso, et tinti ne l’eterno oblio,
onde ‘l principio de mia morte nacque.
The gold and pearls and flowers, crimson and white,
that winter should have made dry and withered,
are cruel and venomous thorns to me,
that sting me fiercely in the chest and side.
So my life will be tearful and short,
since great grief rarely withers or grows old:
but I blame those fatal mirrors more,
that you have wearied gazing at yourself.
They imposed their silence on my lord,
who prayed to you for me, so he was mute,
seeing you sate your passion with yourself:
they were created beneath the watery
depths, and tinted with eternal oblivion,
where the cause of my death was born.
April 5, 2026
Il mio adversario in cui veder solete
gli occhi vostri ch’Amore e ‘l ciel honora,
colle non sue bellezze v’innamora
piú che ‘n guisa mortal soavi et liete.
Per consiglio di lui, donna, m’avete
scacciato del mio dolce albergo fora:
misero exilio, avegna ch’i’ non fôra
d’abitar degno ove voi sola siete.
Ma s’io v’era con saldi chiovi fisso,
non devea specchio farvi per mio danno,
a voi stessa piacendo, aspra et superba.
Certo, se vi rimembra di Narcisso,
questo et quel corso ad un termino vanno,
benché di sí bel fior sia indegna l’erba.
Mirror, my enemy, in which you are allowed
to see your eyes that Love and Heaven honour,
enamours you of beauties not its own,
sweet and delightful in more than mortal ways.
Through its promptings, Lady, I have been
driven from my sweet resting-place:
wretched exile, though I could not rightly stay
where you alone can have existence.
But if I had been fixed there with firm rivets,
that mirror would not have made you proud
and harsh, pleasing to yourself, to my harm.
Surely you can remember Narcissus:
that course and this runs to the same end,
though the grass is not worthy of such a flower.
April 5, 2026
Que’che ‘n Tesaglia ebbe le man’ sí pronte
a farla del civil sangue vermiglia,
pianse morto il marito di sua figlia,
raffigurato a le fatezze conte;
e ‘l pastor ch’a Golia ruppe la fronte,
pianse la ribellante sua famiglia,
et sopra ‘l buon Saúl cangiò le ciglia,
ond’assai può dolersi il fiero monte.
Ma voi che mai pietà non discolora,
et ch’avete gli schermi sempre accorti
contra l’arco d’Amor che ‘ndarno tira,
mi vedete straziare a mille morti:
né lagrima però discese anchora
da’ be’ vostr’occhi, ma disdegno et ira.
Caesar who was all too ready, in Thessaly,
to paint the ground crimson in civil war,
wept for Pompey his dead son-in-law,
recognising his familiar features:
and David the shepherd-boy who shattered
Goliath’s skull, wept for Absalom his rebellious son,
and even drowned his eyes for the dead Saul,
so much so he cursed Gilboa’s cruel mountain.
But you whom pity never caused to pale,
who always have your veil to protect you
against the bow Love draws in vain,
see me tormented by a thousand deaths:
and yet have never let one tear fall
from your sweet eyes, only disdain and anger.
April 5, 2026
Il figliuol di Latona avea già nove
volte guardato dal balcon sovrano,
per quella ch’alcun tempo mosse invano
i suoi sospiri, et or gli altrui commove.
Poi che cercando stanco non seppe ove
s’albergasse, da presso o di lontano,
mostrossi a noi qual huom per doglia insano,
che molto amata cosa non ritrove.
Et cosí tristo standosi in disparte,
tornar non vide il viso, che laudato
sarà s’io vivo in piú di mille carte;
et pietà lui medesmo avea cangiato,
sí che’ begli occhi lagrimavan parte:
però l’aere ritenne il primo stato.
Apollo, Latona’s son, had sent his gaze
down nine times, from his high balcony
looking for one who in former times moved
his sighs in vain, and now moves another’s.
So that tired of searching, not knowing where
she might be, whether near or far,
he appeared to us like one maddened by grief,
who cannot find again a much loved thing.
And positioned apart and being so sad
he did not see that face return, that if I live
will be praised in more than a thousand lines:
and suffering had even altered that face,
until the lovely eyes left off weeping:
so the sky remained in its former state.
April 5, 2026
Ma poi che ‘l dolce riso humile et piano
piú non asconde sue bellezze nove,
le braccia a la fucina indarno move
l’antiquissimo fabbro ciciliano,
ch’a Giove tolte son l’arme di mano
temprate in Mongibello a tutte prove,
et sua sorella par che si rinove
nel bel guardo d’Apollo a mano a mano.
Del lito occidental si move un fiato,
che fa securo il navigar senza arte,
et desta i fior’ tra l’erba in ciascun prato.
Stelle noiose fuggon d’ogni parte,
disperse dal bel viso inamorato,
per cui lagrime molte son già sparte.
But now that her clear sweet humble smile
no longer hides the freshness of her beauty,
that Sicilian smith of ancient times
works his arms at the forge in vain,
for Jupiter lets the weapons fall from his hand,
tempered though they were in Etna’s fires,
and Juno his sister begins to clear the air
under Apollo’s lovely gaze on every side.
A breeze blows from the western shore
that makes it safe to sail without art,
and fills the grass with flowers in every meadow.
Harmful stars vanish from the whole sky,
scattered by that beloved, lovely face,
for which I’ve already shed so many tears.
April 5, 2026
Quando dal proprio sito si rimove
l’arbor ch’amò già Phebo in corpo humano,
sospira et suda a l’opera Vulcano,
per rinfrescar l’aspre saette a Giove:
il qual or tona, or nevicha et or piove,
senza honorar piú Cesare che Giano;
la terra piange, e ‘l sol ci sta lontano,
che la sua cara amica ved’altrove.
Allor riprende ardir Saturno et Marte,
crudeli stelle, et Orïone armato
spezza a’ tristi nocchier’ governi et sarte;
Eolo a Neptuno et a Giunon turbato
fa sentire, et a noi, come si parte
il bel viso dagli angeli aspectato.
When that tree that Apollo once loved
in its human form moves from its proper place,
Vulcan sighs and sweats at his work,
to refresh Jupiter’s sharp lightning-bolts:
who sends now thunder, now snow, or rain,
without regard to July or January:
the earth weeps, and the sun stays far away,
because he sees his dear friend vanish.
Then those fierce planets Saturn and Mars
blaze out again, and armed Orion
shatters the poor sailor’s tiller and shrouds:
and stormy Aeolus makes Neptune,
and Juno, and us, feel the departure
of that lovely face the angels wait for.
April 5, 2026
S’Amore o Morte non dà qualche stroppio
a la tela novella ch’ora ordisco,
et s’io mi svolvo dal tenace visco,
mentre che l’un coll’altro vero accoppio,
i’ farò forse un mio lavor sí doppio
tra lo stil de’ moderni e ‘l sermon prisco,
che, paventosamente a dirlo ardisco,
infin a Roma n’udirai lo scoppio.
Ma però che mi mancha a fornir l’opra
alquanto de le fila benedette
ch’avanzaro a quel mio dilecto padre,
perché tien’ verso me le man’ sí strette,
contra tua usanza? I’ prego che tu l’opra,
e vedrai rïuscir cose leggiadre.
If Love or Death do not bring some flaw
to this new cloth that I now weave,
and if I can keep free of clinging lime,
while I twine the one truth with the other,
perhaps I will create a double work
in modern style but with ancient content,
so that, I’m fearful of saying it too boldly,
you’ll hear the noise even as far as Rome.
But since, to finish the labour, I lack
some of those sacred threads revealed
in those works of my beloved teacher,
why do you close your hand to me,
against your custom? I beg you to open it,
and you’ll see something beautiful appear.
April 5, 2026
Io temo sí de’ begli occhi l’assalto
ne’ quali Amore et la mia morte alberga,
ch’i’ fuggo lor come fanciul la verga,
et gran tempo è ch’i’ presi il primier salto.
Da ora inanzi faticoso od alto
loco non fia, dove ‘l voler non s’erga
per no scontrar chî miei sensi disperga
lassando come suol me freddo smalto.
Dunque s’a veder voi tardo mi volsi
per non ravvicinarmi a chi mi strugge,
fallir forse non fu di scusa indegno.
Piú dico, che ‘l tornare a quel ch’uom fugge,
e ‘l cor che di paura tanta sciolsi,
fur de la mia fede non leggier pegno.
I’m so afraid of those lovely eyes’ assault
in which Love and my death exist,
I run from them like a child from the rod,
and it’s long since I first took that step.
There is no difficult or high place
from now on, I would not reach
to avoid what scatters my senses
leaving me as if I were cold enamel.
So if I turned towards you only lately
not to be nearer what consumes me,
perhaps I am not without a true excuse.
More, to return to the place I fled from,
and free my heart from such deep fear,
is no light testimony to my loyalty.
April 5, 2026
Orso, e’ non furon mai fiumi né stagni,
né mare, ov’ogni rivo si disgombra,
né di muro o di poggio o di ramo ombra,
né nebbia che ‘l ciel copra e ‘l mondo bagni,
né altro impedimento, ond’io mi lagni,
qualunque piú l’umana vista ingombra,
quanto d’un vel che due begli occhi adombra,
et par che dica: Or ti consuma et piagni.
Et quel lor inchinar ch’ogni mia gioia
spegne o per humiltate o per argoglio,
cagion sarà che ‘nanzi tempo i’ moia.
Et d’una bianca mano ancho mi doglio,
ch’è stata sempre accorta a farmi noia,
et contra gli occhi miei s’è fatta scoglio.
Orso, there never was lake or river
or sea, into which all rivers flow,
or shadow of wall, or branch, or hill,
or cloud hiding the sky, bathing the world,
or other obstacle, to make me grieve,
however much it masked human sight,
as the veil that shadows two lovely eyes,
and says by it: ‘Now pine away and weep.’
And then the lowering of them from humility
or pride, so all my joy is dimmed,
is the reason I die before my time.
And I grieve for a white hand too
often lifted shrewdly to do me harm,
and rising like a rock before my eyes.
April 5, 2026
Sí è debile il filo a cui s’attene
la gravosa mia vita
che, s’altri non l’aita,
ella fia tosto di suo corso a riva;
però che dopo l’empia dipartita
che dal dolce mio bene
feci, sol una spene
è stato infin a qui cagion ch’io viva,
dicendo: Perché priva
sia de l’amata vista,
mantienti, anima trista;
che sai s’a miglior tempo ancho ritorni
et a piú lieti giorni,
o se ‘l perduto ben mai si racquista?
Questa speranza mi sostenne un tempo:
or vien mancando, et troppo in lei m’attempo.
Il tempo passa, et l’ore son sí pronte
a fornire il vïaggio,
ch’assai spacio non aggio
pur a pensar com’io corro a la morte:
a pena spunta in orïente un raggio
di sol, ch’a l’altro monte
de l’adverso orizonte
giunto il vedrai per vie lunghe et distorte.
Le vite son sí corte,
sí gravi i corpi et frali
degli uomini mortali,
che quando io mi ritrovo dal bel viso
cotanto esser diviso,
col desio non possendo mover l’ali,
poco m’avanza del conforto usato,
né so quant’io mi viva in questo stato.
Ogni loco m’atrista ov’io non veggio
quei begli occhi soavi
che portaron le chiavi
de’ miei dolci pensier’, mentre a Dio piacque;
et perché ‘l duro exilio piú m’aggravi,
s’io dormo o vado o seggio,
altro già mai non cheggio,
et ciò ch’i’ vidi dopo lor mi spiacque.
Quante montagne et acque,
quanto mar, quanti fiumi
m’ascondon que’ duo lumi,
che quasi un bel sereno a mezzo ‘l die
fer le tenebre mie,
a ciò che ‘l rimembrar piú mi consumi,
et quanto era mia vita allor gioiosa
m’insegni la presente aspra et noiosa!
Lasso, se ragionando si rinfresca
quel’ ardente desio
che nacque il giorno ch’io
lassai di me la miglior parte a dietro,
et s’Amor se ne va per lungo oblio,
chi mi conduce a l’ésca,
onde ‘l mio dolor cresca?
Et perché pria tacendo non m’impetro?
Certo cristallo o vetro
non mostrò mai di fore
nascosto altro colore,
che l’alma sconsolata assai non mostri
piú chiari i pensier’ nostri,
et la fera dolcezza ch’è nel core,
per gli occhi che di sempre pianger vaghi
cercan dí et nocte pur chi glien’appaghi.
Novo piacer che ne gli umani ingegni
spesse volte si trova,
d’amar qual cosa nova
piú folta schiera di sospiri accoglia!
Et io son un di quei che ‘l pianger giova;
et par ben ch’io m’ingegni
che di lagrime pregni
sien gli occhi miei sí come ‘l cor di doglia;
et perché a cciò m’invoglia
ragionar de’ begli occhi,
né cosa è che mi tocchi
o sentir mi si faccia cosí a dentro,
corro spesso, et rïentro,
colà donde piú largo il duol trabocchi,
et sien col cor punite ambe le luci,
ch’a la strada d’Amor mi furon duci.
Le treccie d’òr che devrien fare il sole
d’invidia molta ir pieno,
e ‘l bel guardo sereno,
ove i raggi d’Amor sí caldi sono
che mi fanno anzi tempo venir meno,
et l’accorte parole,
rade nel mondo o sole,
che mi fer già di sé cortese dono,
mi son tolte; et perdono
piú lieve ogni altra offesa,
che l’essermi contesa
quella benigna angelica salute
che ‘l mio cor a vertute
destar solea con una voglia accesa:
tal ch’io non penso udir cosa già mai
che mi conforte ad altro ch’a trar guai.
Et per pianger anchor con piú diletto,
le man’ bianche sottili
et le braccia gentili,
et gli atti suoi soavemente alteri,
e i dolci sdegni alteramente humili,
e ‘l bel giovenil petto,
torre d’alto intellecto,
mi celan questi luoghi alpestri et feri;
et non so s’io mi speri
vederla anzi ch’io mora:
però ch’ad ora ad ora
s’erge la speme, et poi non sa star ferma,
ma ricadendo afferma
di mai non veder lei che ‘l ciel honora,
ov’alberga Honestade et Cortesia,
et dov’io prego che ‘l mio albergo sia.
Canzon, s’al dolce loco
la donna nostra vedi,
credo ben che tu credi
ch’ella ti porgerà la bella mano,
ond’io son sí lontano.
Non la toccar; ma reverente ai piedi
le di’ ch’io sarò là tosto ch’io possa,
o spirto ignudo od uom di carne et d’ossa.
The thread on which my heavy life hangs
is worn so thin,
that if no one supports it
it will soon have arrived at its end:
for after I had suffered the cruel parting
from my sweet good
only one hope
remained that gave reason for living,
saying: ‘Since you are deprived
of the beloved sight,
endure, sad spirit:
Who knows if better times will not return
and more joyful days,
and the good you have lost be regained?
This hope sustained me for a time:
but now it fails I spend too much time on it.
Time passes and the hours are so quick
to complete their journey,
that I have no space
even to think how I race towards death.
A ray of sunlight has hardly appeared
in the east before you see it strike a high peak
on the opposite horizon,
by a long curving path.
Life is so short,
the bodies of mortal men
so burdensome and weak,
that when I recall how I am separated
from that lovely face,
unable to move the wings of my desire,
my usual solace is of little help,
and how long can I live in such a state.
All places sadden me where I do not see
those beautiful bright eyes
which carried off the keys
of my thoughts, sweet while it pleased God:
and all to make my harsh exile harder,
if I sleep or walk or sit,
I long for nothing more,
and nothing I see after them can please me.
How many mountains and waters,
how many seas and rivers,
hide me from those two eyes,
that almost made a clear sky at noon
from my shadows,
only for memory to consume me more,
and to show how joyous my life was before
while my present is harsh and troubled.
Ah, if speaking of it so rekindles
that ardent desire
that was born on the day
when I left the better part of me behind,
and if Love fades away with long neglect
why am I drawn to the bait
that makes my sorrow grow?
And why not rather be turned to silent stone?
Surely crystal or glass
never showed colour
hidden within more clearly
than my desolate soul reveals
my thoughts
and the savage sweetness in my heart
through eyes that always wish to weep
day and night so she might give it rest.
How human wit often turns to seek out
new pleasures, and loves
whatever is new
gathering a greater crowd of sighs!
And I am one whom weeping delights:
and as I bend my wits
to fill my eyes with tears,
so my heart fills with grief:
and since it induces passion
to speak of her lovely eyes
and nothing touches me
or makes me feel so deeply,
I often rush to return
to that which fills me with greater pain,
and with my heart both my eyes are punished
that led me along the road of Love.
That golden hair that might make the sun
move far away in envy,
and that lovely serene gaze,
where Love’s rays burn so,
that makes me fade before my time,
and the deft speech
rare in this world, alone,
that has already granted me courtesy,
are taken from me: and I could pardon
any other offence more easily
than lose that greeting
like a kind angel’s welcome
that lifted my heart to virtue
blazing with one sole desire:
so that I never expect to hear a thing now
that will stir me to anything but deep sighs.
And so I may weep with more delight
her slender white hands
and her gentle arms
and her gestures sweetly noble
and her sweet disdain proudly humble
and her lovely young heart,
a tower of noble feeling,
are hidden from me by wild mountainous places:
and I do not truly hope
to see her before I die:
since hope rises from time
to time, but then does not stand firm,
and recedes, confirming
that I will never see her, whom the heavens honour,
where Honesty and Courtesy reside,
and where I pray my residence might be.
Song, if you see my lady
in that sweet place,
I know well you think
she’ll stretch out her lovely hand to you
that I am far away from.
Do not touch it: but do reverence at her feet
and say I shall be there as swiftly as I can,
as naked spirit, or man of flesh and bone.
April 5, 2026
Sí è debile il filo a cui s’attene
la gravosa mia vita
che, s’altri non l’aita,
ella fia tosto di suo corso a riva;
però che dopo l’empia dipartita
che dal dolce mio bene
feci, sol una spene
è stato infin a qui cagion ch’io viva,
dicendo: Perché priva
sia de l’amata vista,
mantienti, anima trista;
che sai s’a miglior tempo ancho ritorni
et a piú lieti giorni,
o se ‘l perduto ben mai si racquista?
Questa speranza mi sostenne un tempo:
or vien mancando, et troppo in lei m’attempo.
Il tempo passa, et l’ore son sí pronte
a fornire il vïaggio,
ch’assai spacio non aggio
pur a pensar com’io corro a la morte:
a pena spunta in orïente un raggio
di sol, ch’a l’altro monte
de l’adverso orizonte
giunto il vedrai per vie lunghe et distorte.
Le vite son sí corte,
sí gravi i corpi et frali
degli uomini mortali,
che quando io mi ritrovo dal bel viso
cotanto esser diviso,
col desio non possendo mover l’ali,
poco m’avanza del conforto usato,
né so quant’io mi viva in questo stato.
Ogni loco m’atrista ov’io non veggio
quei begli occhi soavi
che portaron le chiavi
de’ miei dolci pensier’, mentre a Dio piacque;
et perché ‘l duro exilio piú m’aggravi,
s’io dormo o vado o seggio,
altro già mai non cheggio,
et ciò ch’i’ vidi dopo lor mi spiacque.
Quante montagne et acque,
quanto mar, quanti fiumi
m’ascondon que’ duo lumi,
che quasi un bel sereno a mezzo ‘l die
fer le tenebre mie,
a ciò che ‘l rimembrar piú mi consumi,
et quanto era mia vita allor gioiosa
m’insegni la presente aspra et noiosa!
Lasso, se ragionando si rinfresca
quel’ ardente desio
che nacque il giorno ch’io
lassai di me la miglior parte a dietro,
et s’Amor se ne va per lungo oblio,
chi mi conduce a l’ésca,
onde ‘l mio dolor cresca?
Et perché pria tacendo non m’impetro?
Certo cristallo o vetro
non mostrò mai di fore
nascosto altro colore,
che l’alma sconsolata assai non mostri
piú chiari i pensier’ nostri,
et la fera dolcezza ch’è nel core,
per gli occhi che di sempre pianger vaghi
cercan dí et nocte pur chi glien’appaghi.
Novo piacer che ne gli umani ingegni
spesse volte si trova,
d’amar qual cosa nova
piú folta schiera di sospiri accoglia!
Et io son un di quei che ‘l pianger giova;
et par ben ch’io m’ingegni
che di lagrime pregni
sien gli occhi miei sí come ‘l cor di doglia;
et perché a cciò m’invoglia
ragionar de’ begli occhi,
né cosa è che mi tocchi
o sentir mi si faccia cosí a dentro,
corro spesso, et rïentro,
colà donde piú largo il duol trabocchi,
et sien col cor punite ambe le luci,
ch’a la strada d’Amor mi furon duci.
Le treccie d’òr che devrien fare il sole
d’invidia molta ir pieno,
e ‘l bel guardo sereno,
ove i raggi d’Amor sí caldi sono
che mi fanno anzi tempo venir meno,
et l’accorte parole,
rade nel mondo o sole,
che mi fer già di sé cortese dono,
mi son tolte; et perdono
piú lieve ogni altra offesa,
che l’essermi contesa
quella benigna angelica salute
che ‘l mio cor a vertute
destar solea con una voglia accesa:
tal ch’io non penso udir cosa già mai
che mi conforte ad altro ch’a trar guai.
Et per pianger anchor con piú diletto,
le man’ bianche sottili
et le braccia gentili,
et gli atti suoi soavemente alteri,
e i dolci sdegni alteramente humili,
e ‘l bel giovenil petto,
torre d’alto intellecto,
mi celan questi luoghi alpestri et feri;
et non so s’io mi speri
vederla anzi ch’io mora:
però ch’ad ora ad ora
s’erge la speme, et poi non sa star ferma,
ma ricadendo afferma
di mai non veder lei che ‘l ciel honora,
ov’alberga Honestade et Cortesia,
et dov’io prego che ‘l mio albergo sia.
Canzon, s’al dolce loco
la donna nostra vedi,
credo ben che tu credi
ch’ella ti porgerà la bella mano,
ond’io son sí lontano.
Non la toccar; ma reverente ai piedi
le di’ ch’io sarò là tosto ch’io possa,
o spirto ignudo od uom di carne et d’ossa.
The thread on which my heavy life hangs
is worn so thin,
that if no one supports it
it will soon have arrived at its end:
for after I had suffered the cruel parting
from my sweet good
only one hope
remained that gave reason for living,
saying: ‘Since you are deprived
of the beloved sight,
endure, sad spirit:
Who knows if better times will not return
and more joyful days,
and the good you have lost be regained?
This hope sustained me for a time:
but now it fails I spend too much time on it.
Time passes and the hours are so quick
to complete their journey,
that I have no space
even to think how I race towards death.
A ray of sunlight has hardly appeared
in the east before you see it strike a high peak
on the opposite horizon,
by a long curving path.
Life is so short,
the bodies of mortal men
so burdensome and weak,
that when I recall how I am separated
from that lovely face,
unable to move the wings of my desire,
my usual solace is of little help,
and how long can I live in such a state.
All places sadden me where I do not see
those beautiful bright eyes
which carried off the keys
of my thoughts, sweet while it pleased God:
and all to make my harsh exile harder,
if I sleep or walk or sit,
I long for nothing more,
and nothing I see after them can please me.
How many mountains and waters,
how many seas and rivers,
hide me from those two eyes,
that almost made a clear sky at noon
from my shadows,
only for memory to consume me more,
and to show how joyous my life was before
while my present is harsh and troubled.
Ah, if speaking of it so rekindles
that ardent desire
that was born on the day
when I left the better part of me behind,
and if Love fades away with long neglect
why am I drawn to the bait
that makes my sorrow grow?
And why not rather be turned to silent stone?
Surely crystal or glass
never showed colour
hidden within more clearly
than my desolate soul reveals
my thoughts
and the savage sweetness in my heart
through eyes that always wish to weep
day and night so she might give it rest.
How human wit often turns to seek out
new pleasures, and loves
whatever is new
gathering a greater crowd of sighs!
And I am one whom weeping delights:
and as I bend my wits
to fill my eyes with tears,
so my heart fills with grief:
and since it induces passion
to speak of her lovely eyes
and nothing touches me
or makes me feel so deeply,
I often rush to return
to that which fills me with greater pain,
and with my heart both my eyes are punished
that led me along the road of Love.
That golden hair that might make the sun
move far away in envy,
and that lovely serene gaze,
where Love’s rays burn so,
that makes me fade before my time,
and the deft speech
rare in this world, alone,
that has already granted me courtesy,
are taken from me: and I could pardon
any other offence more easily
than lose that greeting
like a kind angel’s welcome
that lifted my heart to virtue
blazing with one sole desire:
so that I never expect to hear a thing now
that will stir me to anything but deep sighs.
And so I may weep with more delight
her slender white hands
and her gentle arms
and her gestures sweetly noble
and her sweet disdain proudly humble
and her lovely young heart,
a tower of noble feeling,
are hidden from me by wild mountainous places:
and I do not truly hope
to see her before I die:
since hope rises from time
to time, but then does not stand firm,
and recedes, confirming
that I will never see her, whom the heavens honour,
where Honesty and Courtesy reside,
and where I pray my residence might be.
Song, if you see my lady
in that sweet place,
I know well you think
she’ll stretch out her lovely hand to you
that I am far away from.
Do not touch it: but do reverence at her feet
and say I shall be there as swiftly as I can,
as naked spirit, or man of flesh and bone.
April 5, 2026
S’io credesse per morte essere scarco
del pensiero amoroso che m’atterra,
colle mie mani avrei già posto in terra
queste mie membra noiose, et quello incarco;
ma perch’io temo che sarrebbe un varco
di pianto in pianto, et d’una in altra guerra,
di qua dal passo anchor che mi si serra
mezzo rimango, lasso, et mezzo il varco.
Tempo ben fôra omai d’avere spinto
l’ultimo stral la dispietata corda
ne l’altrui sangue già bagnato et tinto;
et io ne prego Amore, et quella sorda
che mi lassò de’ suoi color’ depinto,
et di chiamarmi a sé non le ricorda.
If I believed I could free myself, by dying,
from amorous thoughts that bind me to the earth,
I would already have laid these troubled limbs
and their burden in the earth myself:
but because I fear to find a passage
from tears to tears, and one war to another,
I remain in the midst, alas, of staying and crossing
on this side of the pass that is closed to me.
There has been enough time now
for the merciless bow to fire its final arrow
bathed and dyed already with others’ blood:
yet Love does not take me, or that deaf one
who has painted me with his own pallor,
and still forgets to call me to him.
April 5, 2026
Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi
vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti,
et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
ove vestigio human l’arena stampi.
Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi
dal manifesto accorger de le genti,
perché negli atti d’alegrezza spenti
di fuor si legge com’io dentro avampi:
sí ch’io mi credo omai che monti et piagge
et fiumi et selve sappian di che tempre
sia la mia vita, ch’è celata altrui.
Ma pur sí aspre vie né sí selvagge
cercar non so ch’Amor non venga sempre
ragionando con meco, et io co llui.
Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,
I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,
and keep my eyes intent on fleeing
any place where human footsteps mark the sand.
I find no other defence to protect me
from other people’s open notice,
since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,
they see from outside how I flame within.
So now I believe that mountains and river-banks
and rivers and forests know the quality
of my life, hidden from others.
Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh
that love will not always come there
speaking with me, and I with him.
April 5, 2026
Apollo, s’anchor vive il bel desio
che t’infiammava a le thesaliche onde,
et se non ài l’amate chiome bionde,
volgendo gli anni, già poste in oblio:
dal pigro gielo et dal tempo aspro et rio,
che dura quanto ‘l tuo viso s’asconde,
difendi or l’onorata et sacra fronde,
ove tu prima, et poi fu’ invescato io;
et per vertú de l’amorosa speme,
che ti sostenne ne la vita acerba,
di queste impressïon l’aere disgombra;
sí vedrem poi per meraviglia inseme
seder la donna nostra sopra l’erba,
et far de le sue braccia a se stessa ombra.
Apollo, if that sweet desire is still alive
that inflamed you by the river of Thessaly,
and if with the passing years you’ve not already
forgotten that beloved blonde hair:
defend the honoured and sacred leaves now,
where you long ago, and I lately, were caught,
through the slow frost and harsh and cruel time
that is endured while you hide your face:
and by the power of that amorous hope
that sustained you, though life was bitter,
disburden the air of this dark weather:
so we may see by a miracle together
our lady seated on the grass
lifting her arms to make herself a shade.
April 5, 2026
Già fiammeggiava l’amorosa stella
per l’orïente, et l’altra che Giunone
suol far gelosa nel septentrïone,
rotava i raggi suoi lucente et bella;
levata era a filar la vecchiarella,
discinta et scalza, et desto avea ‘l carbone,
et gli amanti pungea quella stagione
che per usanza a lagrimar gli appella:
quando mia speme già condutta al verde
giunse nel cor, non per l’usata via,
che ‘l sonno tenea chiusa, e ‘l dolor molle;
quanto cangiata, oimè, da quel di pria!
Et parea dir: Perché tuo valor perde?
Veder quest’occhi anchor non ti si tolle.
Already Venus, the star of love, was blazing
in the east, and that other northern constellation
Callisto’s Great Bear, that makes Juno jealous,
was wheeling round its bright and lovely rays:
the little old woman had risen to her spinning,
barefoot, dishevelled, and had raked the coals,
and that time had arrived for lovers
that calls them by custom to weep again:
when my hope that was already fading
entered my heart, that sleep kept closed
and grief moistened, but not by her usual way:
alas, how altered from how she used to be!
And she seemed to say: ‘Why do you lose courage?
The sight of these eyes is not yet taken from you.’
April 5, 2026
Quanto piú m’avicino al giorno extremo
che l’umana miseria suol far breve,
piú veggio il tempo andar veloce et leve,
e ‘l mio di lui sperar fallace et scemo.
I’ dico a’ miei pensier’: Non molto andremo
d’amor parlando omai, ché ‘l duro et greve
terreno incarco come frescha neve
si va struggendo; onde noi pace avremo:
perché co llui cadrà quella speranza
che ne fe’ vaneggiar sí lungamente,
e ‘l riso e ‘l pianto, et la paura et l’ira;
sí vedrem chiaro poi come sovente
per le cose dubbiose altri s’avanza,
et come spesso indarno si sospira.
The closer I come to that last day
that puts an end to human misery
the more swiftly and lightly I see time go by,
and my hopes of it deceive and fade.
I say in thought: ‘No time is left now
to speak of love, for this hard and heavy
earthly burden has begun to melt
like fresh snow: so we’ll find peace:
since with the body hope too will vanish,
that made us rave for so many years,
with laughter and tears, fear and anger:
for so we see how it often happens
that through uncertain things we advance,
and often we sigh to no real purpose.’
April 5, 2026
Questa anima gentil che si diparte,
anzi tempo chiamata a l’altra vita,
se lassuso è quanto esser dê gradita,
terrà del ciel la piú beata parte.
S’ella riman fra ‘l terzo lume et Marte,
fia la vista del sole scolorita,
poi ch’a mirar sua bellezza infinita
l’anime degne intorno a lei fien sparte.
Se si posasse sotto al quarto nido,
ciascuna de le tre saria men bella,
et essa sola avria la fama e ‘l grido;
nel quinto giro non habitrebbe ella;
ma se vola piú alto, assai mi fido
che con Giove sia vinta ogni altra stella.
That gentle spirit that departs,
called to the other life before its time,
will join the most blessed region of the sky
when it is welcomed as it is sure to be.
If it passed between Venus, the third light, and Mars,
it would lessen the brightness of the sun,
since noble spirits would gather round her
merely to gaze at her infinite beauty.
If it passed below the fourth, the Sun
all the lesser lights would seem less lovely,
and it alone would have the fame and glory:
it could not exist in Mars’ fifth sphere:
but if it flies higher, I believe truly
Jupiter will be conquered and every star.
April 5, 2026
Giovene donna sotto un verde lauro
vidi più biancha et piú fredda che neve
non percossa dal sol molti et molt’anni;
e ‘l suo parlare, e ‘l bel viso, et le chiome
mi piacquen sí ch’i’ l’ò dinanzi agli occhi,
ed avrò sempre, ov’io sia, in poggio o ‘n riva.
Allor saranno i miei pensier a riva
che foglia verde non si trovi in lauro;
quando avrò queto il core, asciutti gli occhi,
vedrem ghiacciare il foco, arder la neve:
non ò tanti capelli in queste chiome
quanti vorrei quel giorno attender anni.
Ma perché vola il tempo, et fuggon gli anni,
sí ch’a la morte in un punto s’arriva,
o colle brune o colle bianche chiome,
seguirò l’ombra di quel dolce lauro
per lo piú ardente sole et per la neve,
fin che l’ultimo dí chiuda quest’occhi.
Non fur già mai veduti sí begli occhi
o ne la nostra etade o ne’ prim’anni,
che mi struggon cosí come ‘l sol neve;
onde procede lagrimosa riva
ch’Amor conduce a pie’ del duro lauro
ch’à i rami di diamante, et d’òr le chiome.
I’ temo di cangiar pria volto et chiome
che con vera pietà mi mostri gli occhi
l’idolo mio, scolpito in vivo lauro:
ché s’al contar non erro, oggi à sett’anni
che sospirando vo di riva in riva
la notte e ‘l giorno, al caldo ed a la neve.
Dentro pur foco, et for candida neve,
sol con questi pensier’, con altre chiome,
sempre piangendo andrò per ogni riva,
per far forse pietà venir negli occhi
di tal che nascerà dopo mill’anni,
se tanto viver pò ben cólto lauro.
L’auro e i topacii al sol sopra la neve
vincon le bionde chiome presso agli occhi
che menan gli anni miei sí tosto a riva.
I saw a girl under green laurel
colder and whiter than the snow
untouched by the sun for many years:
and her speech, her lovely face, her hair
so please me that she’s before my eyes,
and will be always, wherever, on sea or shore.
My thoughts at last will come to shore,
when there are no green leaves on laurel:
when I’ve quieted my heart, dried my eyes,
we’ll see freezing fire and burning snow:
and there’s not as many strands in my hair
as the years I’d wait to see that, and years.
But since time flies and they vanish, those years,
so that death comes to us, and so sure
either with dark hair or with white hair
I’ll follow the shadow of that sweet laurel,
through the brightest sun and through the snow,
until the last day closes my eyes.
Such lovely eyes were never seen
in our age or in earlier years,
that melt me as sun melts the snow:
from which proceeds a tear-drenched shore
a stream that Love leads under harsh laurel,
that has branches of steel, and golden hair.
I fear I’ll be altered in face and hair
before I see real pity in her eyes,
my idol sculptured from living laurel:
if I’ve not miscounted it’s seven years
today that I’ve sighed from shore to shore,
night and day, in heat and snow.
Fire inside, outside white snow
alone with these thoughts, with altered hair,
I’ll walk weeping along every shore
so that pity perhaps will appear in eyes
not to be born for a thousand years,
if such is the span of cultured laurel.
April 5, 2026
Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi
non vestí donna unquancho
né d’or capelli in bionda treccia attorse,
sí bella com’è questa che mi spoglia
d’arbitrio, et dal camin de libertade
seco mi tira, sí ch’io non sostegno
alcun giogo men grave.
Et se pur s’arma talor a dolersi
l’anima a cui vien mancho
consiglio, ove ‘l martir l’adduce in forse,
rappella lei da la sfrenata voglia
súbita vista, ché del cor mi rade
ogni delira impresa, et ogni sdegno
fa ‘l veder lei soave.
Di quanto per Amor già mai soffersi,
et aggio a soffrir ancho,
fin che mi sani ‘l cor colei che ‘l morse,
rubella di mercé, che pur l’envoglia,
vendetta fia, sol che contra Humiltade
Orgoglio et Ira il bel passo ond’io vegno
non chiuda et non inchiave.
Ma l’ora e ‘l giorno ch’io le luci apersi
nel bel nero et nel biancho
che mi scacciâr di là dove Amor corse,
novella d’esta vita che m’ addoglia
furon radice, et quella in cui l’etade
nostra si mira, la qual piombo o legno
vedendo è chi non pave.
Lagrima dunque che da gli occhi versi
per quelle, che nel mancho
lato mi bagna chi primier s’accorse,
quadrella, dal voler mio non mi svoglia,
ché ‘n giusta parte la sententia cade:
per lei sospira l’alma, et ella è degno
che le sue piaghe lave.
Da me son fatti i miei pensier’ diversi:
tal già, qual io mi stancho,
l’amata spada in se stessa contorse;
né quella prego che però mi scioglia,
ché men son dritte al ciel tutt’altre strade
et non s’aspira al glorïoso regno
certo in piú salda nave.
Benigne stelle che compagne fersi
al fortunato fianco
quando ‘l bel parto giú nel mondo scórse!
ch’è stella in terra, et come in lauro foglia
conserva verde il pregio d’onestade,
ove non spira folgore, né indegno
vento mai che l’aggrave.
So io ben ch’a voler chiuder in versi
suo laudi, fôra stancho
chi piú degna la mano a scriver porse:
qual cella è di memoria in cui s’accoglia
quanta vede vertú, quanta beltade,
chi gli occhi mira d’ogni valor segno,
dolce del mio cor chiave?
Quando il sol gira, Amor piú caro pegno,
donna, di voi non ave.
Green dresses, crimson, black or purple,
were never worn by ladies,
nor golden hair tied in a fair braid,
as beautifully as she who robs me
of my will, and takes away the path
of my liberty, so I cannot even
tolerate a lighter yoke.
And even if my spirit begins to grieve,
losing its judgement,
when suffering brings doubt,
the loose will is quickly restrained
by the sight of her, who razes from my heart
every mad project, and makes all
disdain sweet through seeing her.
I will have revenge, for all that Love
has made me suffer, all I must still suffer
until she heals the heart she ravaged,
she, alien to pity, but still enticing,
unless Anger and Pride opposing Humility
close off and deny the way
that leads to her.
And the day and the hour that opened my eyes
to the lovely dark and the lovely white
that emptied me of that where Love now lives,
were the new roots of the life that troubles me,
as she does in whom our age is reflected,
for he is made of lead or stone
whom she does not make afraid.
So no tear of those I weep,
because of these arrow-tips
bathing my heart, that first felt them, in blood,
signifies that I un-wish what I wished,
the punishment falls in the right place:
through the eyes my soul sighs, and it’s right
that they bathe my wounds.
My own thoughts struggle against me:
so Dido, weary as I am now,
turned her beloved sword against herself:
yet I do not pray for my freedom,
since all other roads to heaven are less true,
and there is no safer ship in which to aspire
to the glorious kingdom.
Benign stars that were friends
to that fortunate womb
when that beauty came to this world!
She is a star on earth, and she keeps
her chastity as laurel stays green,
so no lightning strikes her, no shameful breeze
can ever force her.
I know that to capture her praise in verse
would be to exceed
the most worthy that set hand to writing.
What cell of memory is there in which to hold
so much virtue and so much beauty together
that shine in her eyes, the sign of all value,
the key to unlock my heart.
Lady, beneath the sun’s circle, Love has
no greater treasure than you.
April 5, 2026
O aspectata in ciel beata et bella
anima che di nostra humanitade
vestita vai, non come l’altre carca:
perché ti sian men dure omai le strade,
a Dio dilecta, obedïente ancella,
onde al suo regno di qua giú si varca,
ecco novellamente a la tua barca,
ch’al cieco mondo ha già volte le spalle
per gir al miglior porto,
d’un vento occidental dolce conforto;
lo qual per mezzo questa oscura valle,
ove piangiamo il nostro et l’altrui torto,
la condurrà de’ lacci antichi sciolta,
per drittissimo calle,
al verace orïente ov’ella è volta.
Forse i devoti et gli amorosi preghi
et le lagrime sancte de’ mortali
son giunte inanzi a la pietà superna;
et forse non fur mai tante né tali
che per merito lor punto si pieghi
fuor de suo corso la giustitia eterna;
ma quel benigno re che ‘l ciel governa
al sacro loco ove fo posto in croce
gli occhi per gratia gira,
onde nel petto al novo Karlo spira
la vendetta ch’a noi tardata nòce,
sí che molt’anni Europa ne sospira:
cosí soccorre a la sua amata sposa
tal che sol de la voce
fa tremar Babilonia, et star pensosa.
Chïunque alberga tra Garona e ‘l monte
e ‘ntra ‘l Rodano e ‘l Reno et l’onde salse
le ‘nsegne cristianissime accompagna;
et a cui mai di vero pregio calse,
del Pireneo a l’ultimo orizonte
con Aragon lassarà vòta Hispagna;
Inghilterra con l’isole che bagna
l’Occeano intra ‘l Carro et le Colonne,
infin là dove sona
doctrina del sanctissimo Elicona,
varie di lingue et d’arme, et de le gonne,
a l’alta impresa caritate sprona.
Deh qual amor sí licito o sí degno,
qua’ figli mai, qua’ donne
furon materia a sí giusto disdegno?
Una parte del mondo è che si giace
mai sempre in ghiaccio et in gelate nevi
tutta lontana dal camin del sole:
là sotto i giorni nubilosi et brevi,
nemica natural-mente di pace,
nasce una gente a cui il morir non dole.
Questa se, piú devota che non sòle,
col tedesco furor la spada cigne,
turchi, arabi et caldei,
con tutti quei che speran nelli dèi
di qua dal mar che fa l’onde sanguigne,
quanto sian da prezzar, conoscer dêi:
popolo ignudo paventoso et lento,
che ferro mai non strigne,
ma tutt’i colpi suoi commette al vento.
Dunque ora è ‘l tempo da ritrare il collo
dal giogo antico, et da squarciare il velo
ch’è stato avolto intorno agli occhi nostri,
et che ‘l nobile ingegno che dal cielo
per gratia tien’ de l’immortale Apollo,
et l’eloquentia sua vertú qui mostri
or con la lingua, or co’laudati incostri:
perché d’Orpheo leggendo et d’Amphïone
se non ti meravigli,
assai men fia ch’Italia co’ suoi figli
si desti al suon del tuo chiaro sermone,
tanto che per Jesú la lancia pigli;
che s’al ver mira questa anticha madre,
in nulla sua tentione
fur mai cagion sí belle o sí leggiadre.
Tu ch’ài, per arricchir d’un bel thesauro,
volte le antiche et le moderne carte,
volando al ciel colla terrena soma,
sai da l’imperio del figliuol de Marte
al grande Augusto che di verde lauro
tre volte trïumphando ornò la chioma,
ne l’altrui ingiurie del suo sangue Roma
spesse fïate quanto fu cortese:
et or perché non fia
cortese no, ma conoscente et pia
a vendicar le dispietate offese,
col figliuol glorïoso di Maria?
Che dunque la nemica parte spera
ne l’umane difese,
se Cristo sta da la contraria schiera?
Pon’ mente al temerario ardir di Xerse,
che fece per calcare i nostri liti
di novi ponti oltraggio a la marina;
et vedrai ne la morte de’ mariti
tutte vestite a brun le donne perse,
et tinto in rosso il mar di Salamina.
Et non pur questa misera rüina
del popol infelice d’orïente
victoria t’empromette,
ma Marathona, et le mortali strette
che difese il leon con poca gente,
et altre mille ch’ài ascoltate et lette:
Perché inchinare a Dio molto convene
le ginocchia et la mente,
che gli anni tuoi riserva a tanto bene.
Tu vedrai Italia et l’onorata riva,
canzon, ch’agli occhi miei cela et contende
non mar, non poggio o fiume,
ma solo Amor che del suo altero lume
piú m’invaghisce dove piú m’incende:
né Natura può star contra’l costume.
Or movi, non smarrir l’altre compagne,
ché non pur sotto bende
alberga Amor, per cui si ride et piagne.
O blessed and lovely spirit expected in Heaven
truly clothed with our humanity,
but not imprisoned in it like others:
oh God’s delight, obedient servant,
so that you ever find the gentler road,
by which we cross from here to his kingdom,
see how recently your boat
has turned its back on the blind world
to sail to a better harbour
with the sweet comfort of a western wind:
you’ll be conducted through the midst
of this dark valley where we weep for our
and another’s sin, from ancient bonds broken,
through the straightest path,
to the true East, towards which you have turned.
Perhaps the devoted and loving prayers
and the sacred tears of mortal beings
have made their way towards the highest pity:
and perhaps they were not great enough nor such
as to merit eternal justice bending
even a little from its course:
but the benign king who governs the heavens
through grace turns his eyes
to the sacred place where one hung on the cross,
breathing vengeance into the heart
of the new Charlemagne, so that delay would hurt us,
since Europe has sighed for it for many years:
so he brings aid to his beloved spouse
so that merely at his voice
Babylon trembles, and stands amazed.
Every place between the Garonne and the mountains,
between Rhone and Rhine and the salt waves
follows the highest ensign of Christ:
and those who ever sought true honour,
from the Pyrenees to the furthest horizon
empty Spain to follow Aragon:
England with the islands Ocean bathes
between the Pillars and the Bear,
as far as where the doctrine resounds
from the most sacred Helicon,
men of varied tongues and arms and dress,
spur to Heaven’s high enterprise.
What love, so lawful and worthy,
whether of children or of wife,
was the subject of such a just design?
There is a part of the world frozen,
always beneath the ice and cold snow,
so far is it from the sun’s path:
the day there is clouded and brief,
and bears a people that death does not grieve,
the natural enemies of peace.
So that if they became more devout than they are,
and took up swords with German fury,
we would soon find out the worth
of the Turks, and Arabs, and Chaldeans,
with all the gods they place their hopes in,
this side of the sea with blood-red waters:
lazy and fearful, naked peoples,
who never fight with steel,
but commit their weapons to the winds.
Now is the time to throw off the yoke
of ancient slavery, and the thick veil
that has long been draped over our eyes:
and for the noble wit you possess
from heaven by the grace of the immortal Apollo,
and your eloquence, to show its power
now in the spoken, now the written word:
for if you don’t marvel at the legends
of Orpheus and Amphion,
less should you at rousing Italy’s sons
with the sound of your clear speech,
so they take up the lance for Christ:
for if this ancient motherland seeks truth,
in none of her intentions
was ever so lovely or noble a cause.
You who’ve enriched yourself
turning the ancient and modern pages,
flying to heaven in an earthly body,
you know, from the empire of Mars’ son
to when great Augustus three times
crowned his head with green laurel,
how many times through injury to others
Rome was generous with her blood:
and should she not be now,
not generous but dutiful and pious
in avenging the impious injury
to the Son of our glorious Mary?
What hope can the enemy have
or human defence
if Christ fights against them?
Remember the rash audacity of Xerxes
who outraged the sea with alien bridges
made in order to land on our shores:
and see how all the Persian women
were dressed in black for their dead husbands:
and the sea at Salamis tinted red.
And not only is victory promised
by that ruinous misery for the sad
Eastern peoples,
but Marathon, and that vital pass
that the Spartan lion defended with the few,
and other battles you have heard of or read:
so we should certainly bow to God,
our knees and spirit,
He who has preserved our age for so much good.
Song, you’ll see Italy and the famous river,
not hidden from my eyes, not concealed
by sea, or hill, or stream,
but only by Love that with his other light
binds me closer the more he fires me:
nor is Nature more opposed to habit.
Now go, without losing other friends,
since Love for which we smile and weep
does not live only beneath women’s veils.
April 5, 2026
Il successor di Karlo, che la chioma
co la corona del suo antiquo adorna,
prese à già l’arme per fiacchar le corna
a Babilonia, et chi da lei si noma;
e ‘l vicario de Cristo colla soma
de le chiavi et del manto al nido torna,
sí che s’altro accidente nol distorna,
vedrà Bologna, et poi la nobil Roma.
La mansüeta vostra et gentil agna
abbatte i fieri lupi: et cosí vada
chïunque amor legitimo scompagna.
Consolate lei dunque ch’anchor bada,
et Roma che del suo sposo si lagna,
et per Jesú cingete ormai la spada.
Charlemagne’s scion, whose head is adorned
with the royal crown of his ancestor,
has taken up arms to bring Babylon down
and all that take their name from her.
and the Vicar of Christ returns to the nest
with the mantle and the burdensome keys,
and if no further accident deters him,
he’ll reach Bologna, and then noble Rome.
That mild and gentle lamb of yours
destroys the fierce wolves: and so may it be
with all who shatter lawful alliances.
Console her then, you whom she waits for,
and Rome who still complains of her spouse,
and take up the sword now for Christ.
April 5, 2026
Piú di me lieta non si vede a terra
nave da l’onde combattuta et vinta,
quando la gente di pietà depinta
su per la riva a ringratiar s’atterra;
né lieto piú del carcer si diserra
chi ‘ntorno al collo ebbe la corda avinta,
di me, veggendo quella spada scinta
che fece al segnor mio sí lunga guerra.
Et tutti voi ch’Amor laudate in rima,
al buon testor de gli amorosi detti
rendete honor, ch’era smarrito in prima:
ché piú gloria è nel regno degli electi
d’un spirito converso, et più s’estima,
che di novantanove altri perfecti.
No ship, beaten and conquered by the waves,
ever made land more happily than me,
when people who were crying for mercy
kneel down on the shore to give thanks:
he who has the rope already round his neck
is no happier to be freed from his bonds,
than me, seeing all those swords shattered
that made so long a war against my lord.
And all who praise Love in your rhymes,
give honour now to the true writer
of loving songs who once went astray:
for there’s more joy, in the realms of the chosen,
in a penitent spirit, and he is more esteemed
than the ninety-nine others who were perfect.
April 5, 2026
Amor piangeva, et io con lui talvolta,
dal qual miei passi non fur mai lontani,
mirando per gli effecti acerbi et strani
l’anima vostra dei suoi nodi sciolta.
Or ch’al dritto camin l’à Dio rivolta,
col cor levando al cielo ambe le mani
ringratio lui che’ giusti preghi humani
benignamente, sua mercede, ascolta.
Et se tornando a l’amorosa vita,
per farvi al bel desio volger le spalle,
trovaste per la via fossati o poggi,
fu per mostrar quanto è spinoso calle,
et quanto alpestra et dura la salita,
onde al vero valor conven ch’uom poggi.
Love wept, and sometimes I wept with him,
from whom my steps never strayed far,
gazing, since the effect was bitter and strange,
at your spirit, set loose from all Love’s bonds.
Now God has returned you to the true way,
I lift my hands with all my heart to heaven,
thankful to him who in his mercy listens
benignly to honest human prayers.
And if in returning to the loving path,
you found hills and ditches in your way
enough to almost make you turn back,
it was to show how thorny is the road,
and how mountainous and hard the climb,
if a man would find where true worth lies.
April 5, 2026
Se l’onorata fronde che prescrive
l’ira del ciel, quando ‘l gran Giove tona,
non m’avesse disdetta la corona
che suole ornar chi poetando scrive,
i’era amico a queste vostre dive
le qua’ vilmente il secolo abandona;
ma quella ingiuria già lunge mi sprona
da l’inventrice de le prime olive:
ché non bolle la polver d’Ethïopia
sotto ‘l più ardente sol, com’io sfavillo,
perdendo tanto amata cosa propia.
Cercate dunque fonte piú tranquillo,
ché ‘l mio d’ogni liquor sostene inopia,
salvo di quel che lagrimando stillo.
If the honoured branch that wards off
heaven’s anger when great Jupiter thunders
had not refused me its laurel crown
which usually wreathes those who write poetry,
I would be a friend of those Muses of yours
that this unworthy age has abandoned:
but that injustice keeps me far from
Minerva who first gave us olive trees:
for the sands of Ethiopia could not burn
hotter under the burning sun than I blaze
at losing a thing so beloved, as my own.
Search out a steadier fount than mine,
which only wells in an impoverished stream,
except for that which distils from my tears.
April 5, 2026
Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade,
che nascer vide et anchor quasi in herba
la fera voglia che per mio mal crebbe,
perché cantando il duol si disacerba,
canterò com’io vissi in libertade,
mentre Amor nel mio albergo a sdegno s’ebbe.
Poi seguirò sí come a lui ne ‘ncrebbe
troppo altamente, e che di ciò m’avvenne,
di ch’io son facto a molta gente exempio:
benché ‘l mio duro scempio
sia scripto altrove, sí che mille penne
ne son già stanche, et quasi in ogni valle
rimbombi il suon de’ miei gravi sospiri,
ch’aquistan fede a la penosa vita.
E se qui la memoria non m’aita
come suol fare, iscúsilla i martiri,
et un penser che solo angoscia dàlle,
tal ch’ad ogni altro fa voltar le spalle,
e mi face oblïar me stesso a forza:
ché tèn di me quel d’entro, et io la scorza.
I’ dico che dal dí che ‘l primo assalto
mi diede Amor, molt’anni eran passati,
sí ch’io cangiava il giovenil aspetto;
e d’intorno al mio cor pensier’ gelati
facto avean quasi adamantino smalto
ch’allentar non lassava il duro affetto.
Lagrima anchor non mi bagnava il petto
né rompea il sonno, et quel che in me non era,
mi pareva un miracolo in altrui.
Lasso, che son! che fui!
La vita el fin, e ‘l dí loda la sera.
Ché sentendo il crudel di ch’io ragiono
infin allor percossa di suo strale
non essermi passato oltra la gonna,
prese in sua scorta una possente donna,
ver’ cui poco già mai mi valse o vale
ingegno, o forza, o dimandar perdono;
e i duo mi trasformaro in quel ch’i’ sono,
facendomi d’uom vivo un lauro verde,
che per fredda stagion foglia non perde.
Qual mi fec’io quando primier m’accorsi
de la trasfigurata mia persona,
e i capei vidi far di quella fronde
di che sperato avea già lor corona,
e i piedi in ch’io mi stetti, et mossi, et corsi,
com’ogni membro a l’anima risponde,
diventar due radici sovra l’onde
non di Peneo, ma d’un piú altero fiume,
e n’ duo rami mutarsi ambe le braccia!
Né meno anchor m’ agghiaccia
l’esser coverto poi di bianche piume
allor che folminato et morto giacque
il mio sperar che tropp’alto montava:
ché perch’io non sapea dove né quando
me ‘l ritrovasse, solo lagrimando
là ‘ve tolto mi fu, dí e nocte andava,
ricercando dallato, et dentro a l’acque;
et già mai poi la mia lingua non tacque
mentre poteo del suo cader maligno:
ond’io presi col suon color d’un cigno.
Cosí lungo l’amate rive andai,
che volendo parlar, cantava sempre
mercé chiamando con estrania voce;
né mai in sí dolci o in sí soavi tempre
risonar seppi gli amorosi guai,
che ‘l cor s’umilïasse aspro et feroce.
Qual fu a sentir? ché ‘l ricordar mi coce:
ma molto piú di quel, che per inanzi
de la dolce et acerba mia nemica
è bisogno ch’io dica,
benché sia tal ch’ogni parlare avanzi.
Questa che col mirar gli animi fura,
m’aperse il petto, e ‘l cor prese con mano,
dicendo a me: Di ciò non far parola.
Poi la rividi in altro habito sola,
tal ch’i’ non la conobbi, oh senso humano,
anzi le dissi ‘l ver pien di paura;
ed ella ne l’usata sua figura
tosto tornando, fecemi, oimè lasso,
d’un quasi vivo et sbigottito sasso.
Ella parlava sí turbata in vista,
che tremar mi fea dentro a quella petra,
udendo: I’ non son forse chi tu credi.
E dicea meco: Se costei mi spetra,
nulla vita mi fia noiosa o trista;
a farmi lagrimar, signor mio, riedi.
Come non so: pur io mossi indi i piedi,
non altrui incolpando che me stesso,
mezzo tutto quel dí tra vivo et morto.
Ma perché ‘l tempo è corto,
la penna al buon voler non pò gir presso:
onde piú cose ne la mente scritte
vo trapassando, et sol d’alcune parlo
che meraviglia fanno a chi l’ascolta.
Morte mi s’era intorno al cor avolta,
né tacendo potea di sua man trarlo,
o dar soccorso a le vertuti afflitte;
le vive voci m’erano interditte;
ond’io gridai con carta et con incostro:
Non son mio, no. S’io moro, il danno è vostro.
Ben mi credea dinanzi agli occhi suoi
d’indegno far cosí di mercé degno,
et questa spene m’avea fatto ardito:
ma talora humiltà spegne disdegno,
talor l’enfiamma; et ciò sepp’io da poi,
lunga stagion di tenebre vestito:
ch’a quei preghi il mio lume era sparito.
Ed io non ritrovando intorno intorno
ombra di lei, né pur de’ suoi piedi orma,
come huom che tra via dorma,
gittaimi stancho sovra l’erba un giorno.
Ivi accusando il fugitivo raggio,
a le lagrime triste allargai ‘l freno,
et lasciaile cader come a lor parve;
né già mai neve sotto al sol disparve
com’io sentí’ me tutto venir meno,
et farmi una fontana a pie’ d’un faggio.
Gran tempo humido tenni quel vïaggio.
Chi udí mai d’uom vero nascer fonte?
E parlo cose manifeste et conte.
L’alma ch’è sol da Dio facta gentile,
ché già d’altrui non pò venir tal gratia,
simile al suo factor stato ritene:
però di perdonar mai non è sacia
a chi col core et col sembiante humile
dopo quantunque offese a mercé vène.
Et se contra suo stile essa sostene
d’esser molto pregata, in Lui si specchia,
et fal perché ‘l peccar piú si pavente:
ché non ben si ripente
de l’un mal chi de l’altro s’apparecchia.
Poi che madonna da pietà commossa
degnò mirarme, et ricognovve et vide
gir di pari la pena col peccato,
benigna mi redusse al primo stato.
Ma nulla à ‘l mondo in ch’uom saggio si fide:
ch’ancor poi ripregando, i nervi et l’ossa
mi volse in dura selce; et così scossa
voce rimasi de l’antiche some,
chiamando Morte, et lei sola per nome.
Spirto doglioso errante (mi rimembra)
per spelunche deserte et pellegrine,
piansi molt’anni il mio sfrenato ardire:
et anchor poi trovai di quel mal fine,
et ritornai ne le terrene membra,
credo per piú dolore ivi sentire.
I’ seguí’ tanto avanti il mio desire
ch’un dí cacciando sí com’io solea
mi mossi; e quella fera bella et cruda
in una fonte ignuda
si stava, quando ‘l sol piú forte ardea.
Io, perché d’altra vista non m’appago,
stetti a mirarla: ond’ella ebbe vergogna;
et per farne vendetta, o per celarse,
l’acqua nel viso co le man’ mi sparse.
Vero dirò (forse e’ parrà menzogna)
ch’i’ sentí’ trarmi de la propria imago,
et in un cervo solitario et vago
di selva in selva ratto mi trasformo:
et anchor de’ miei can’ fuggo lo stormo.
Canzon, i’ non fu’ mai quel nuvol d’oro
che poi discese in pretïosa pioggia,
sí che ‘l foco di Giove in parte spense;
ma fui ben fiamma ch’un bel guardo accense,
et fui l’uccel che piú per l’aere poggia,
alzando lei che ne’ miei detti honoro:
né per nova figura il primo alloro
seppi lassar, ché pur la sua dolce ombra
ogni men bel piacer del cor mi sgombra.
I’ll sing of the sweet time of my first youth,
that saw the birth and the first leafing
of fierce desire that blossomed to my hurt,
since grief is rendered less bitter by being sung:
I’ll sing of when I lived in liberty,
while Love was disdained in my house.
Then follow it with how I scorned him
too deeply, and say what came of it,
of how I was made an example to many men:
even though my harsh ruin
is written of elsewhere, so that a thousand pens
are not yet weary of it, and almost every valley
echoes again to the sound of my deep sighs
that add credence to my painful life.
And if memory does not aid me
as it once did, blame my sufferings,
and one thought which is anguished
it makes me turn my back on every other,
and by the same light makes me forget myself:
ruling what is inside me, I the shell.
I say that many years had passed
since Love tried his first assault on me,
so that I had lost my juvenile aspect,
and frozen thoughts about my heart
had almost made a covering of enamel,
so that its hardness left nothing lacking.
Still no tears had bathed my cheeks,
my sleep unbroken, and what I could not feel
seemed like a marvel to me in others.
Alas what am I? What was I?
Life is ended, and evening crowns the day.
That savage adversary of whom I speak,
seeing at last that not a single shot
of his had even pierced my clothes,
brought a powerful lady to help him,
against whom intellect, or force,
or asking mercy never were or are of value:
and the two transformed me to what I am,
making green laurel from a living man,
that loses no leaves in the coldest season.
What a state I was in when I first realized
the transfiguration of my person,
and saw my hair formed of those leaves
that I had hoped might yet crown me,
and my feet with which I stand, move, run,
since each member accords with the spirit,
turned into two roots by the water
not of Peneus, but a nobler river,
and both my arms changed to branches!
The memory still chills me,
of being clothed then in white plumage,
when my hope that had tried to climb too high
was lightning-struck and lying dead,
and I, who had no idea where or when
I might retrieve it, went weeping alone
day and night where I had lost it,
searching the banks and beneath the water:
and while I might my tongue was never silent
from that moment about hope’s evil fall:
until I took on, with its voice, the colour of a swan.
So I went along the pleasant stream,
and wishing to speak I found I always sang,
calling for mercy in a strange voice,
but never making my loving sorrows echo
in so sweet or in so soft a mode
as to make that harsh and savage heart relent.
What was it to feel so? How the memory burns me:
but I need to say more than this
of my sweet and bitter enemy,
more than ever before,
though she is such as is beyond all telling.
She who maddens men with her gaze,
opened my chest, and took my heart in her hand,
saying to me: ‘Speak no word of this.’
Then I saw her alone, in a different dress,
so that I did not know her, oh human senses,
and full of fear told her the truth:
and she turning quickly back
to her usual guise, made me, alas,
semi-living and dumb stone.
She spoke to me, so angered in aspect
that she made me tremble inside the rock,
saying: ‘Perhaps I am not what you believe.’
And I said to myself: ‘If only she releases me
from the rock, no life will make me troubled or sad:
return, my lord, and let me weep.’
I moved my feet then, I don’t know how,
still blaming no-one but my own self,
between living and dying, all that day.
But because the time is short
my pen cannot keep pace with my true will:
I must pass over many more things
inscribed in my mind, and only speak of those
that will seem marvellous to those who hear.
Death circled round about my heart,
which I could not rescue by being silent,
nor could I help my afflicted senses:
a living voice was forbidden me:
so I cried out with paper and ink:
‘I am not my own. If I die the loss is yours.’
I truly thought I could turn myself in her eyes
from worthlessness to a thing of worth,
and that hope had made me eager:
but hope at times is quenched by disdain
at times takes fire: and so I found it then,
placed in the shadows for so long,
for at my prayers my true light had left me.
And not finding a shadow of her, her or there,
nor even the print of her foot,
one day I flung myself down on the grass
like a traveller who sleeps on the way.
Accusing the fugitive ray of light, from there,
I loosed the reins of my sad tears,
and let them fall as they wished,
I felt myself melt wholly, as snow
never vanished so in the sun,
becoming a fount at a beech-tree’s foot.
I held that moist course for a length of time.
Who ever heard of fountains born of men?
Yet I tell you something manifest and known.
The soul whose gentleness is all from God,
since such grace could come from nowhere else,
holds a virtue like that of its maker:
it grants pardon, and never wearies,
to him of humble face and heart,
whatever sins he comes to mercy with.
And if contrary to its nature it suffers
being prayed to often, it mirrors Him,
and so makes the sin more fearful:
for he does not truly repent
who prepares for one sin with another.
So my lady moved by pity
deigned to look down on me, and seeing
I revealed a punishment matched to the sin,
she kindly returned me to my first state.
But there’s nothing a man can trust to in this world:
praying to her still, I felt my bone and nerves
turn to hard flint: and only a voice shaken
from my former being remained,
calling on Death, and calling her by name.
A grieving spirit (I recall) I wandered
through empty and alien caverns,
weeping my errant ardour for many years:
and at least reached its end,
and I returned to my earthly limbs,
I think in order to suffer greater pain.
I followed my desire so closely
that hunting one day as was my custom,
I saw that creature, wild and beautiful,
standing naked
in a pool, when the sun shone most brightly.
I, because no other sight so pleases me,
stood and gazed: she covered in her shame:
and for revenge or to hide herself,
she splashed water in my face, with her hand.
I speak the truth (though I may seem to lie)
that I felt myself altered from my true form,
and swiftly transmuted to a lonely stag,
wandering from wood to wood:
and fleeing from my own pack of hounds.
Song, I was never that golden cloud
that once fell as a precious shower,
so that Jove’s flame was quenched a little:
but I have been the fire that a lovely look kindled,
and the bird that rises highest in the air,
exalting her with my words in honour:
nor could I leave the highest laurel
for some new shape, for by its sweet shade
all lesser beauties that please the heart are scattered.
April 5, 2026
A qualunque animale alberga in terra,
se non se alquanti ch’ànno in odio il sole,
tempo da travagliare è quanto è ‘l giorno;
ma poi che ‘l ciel accende le sue stelle,
qual torna a casa et qual s’anida in selva
per aver posa almeno infin a l’alba.
Et io, da che comincia la bella alba
a scuoter l’ombra intorno de la terra
svegliando gli animali in ogni selva,
non ò mai triegua di sospir’ col sole;
pur quand’io veggio fiammeggiar le stelle
vo lagrimando, et disïando il giorno.
Quando la sera scaccia il chiaro giorno,
et le tenebre nostre altrui fanno alba,
miro pensoso le crudeli stelle,
che m’ànno facto di sensibil terra;
et maledico il dí ch’i’ vidi ‘l sole,
e che mi fa in vista un huom nudrito in selva.
Non credo che pascesse mai per selva
sí aspra fera, o di nocte o di giorno,
come costei ch’i ‘piango a l’ombra e al sole;
et non mi stancha primo sonno od alba:
ché, bench’i’ sia mortal corpo di terra,
lo mi fermo desir vien da le stelle.
Prima ch’i’ torni a voi, lucenti stelle,
o torni giú ne l’amorosa selva,
lassando il corpo che fia trita terra,
vedess’io in lei pietà, che ‘n un sol giorno
può ristorar molt’anni, e ‘nanzi l’alba
puommi arichir dal tramontar del sole.
Con lei foss’io da che si parte il sole,
et non ci vedess’altri che le stelle,
sol una nocte, et mai non fosse l’alba;
et non se transformasse in verde selva
per uscirmi di braccia, come il giorno
ch’Apollo la seguia qua giú per terra.
Ma io sarò sotterra in secca selva
e ‘l giorno andrà pien di minute stelle
prima ch’a sí dolce alba arrivi il sole.
The time to labour, for every animal
that inhabits earth, is when it is still day,
except for those to whom the sun is hateful:
but then when heaven sets fire to its stars,
some turn for home and some nestle in the woods
to find some rest before the dawn.
And I may not cease to sigh with the sun,
from when dawn begins to scatter
the shadows from around the Earth,
waking the animals in every woodland:
yet when I see the flaming of the stars
I go weeping, and desire the day.
When the evening drives out daylight’s clarity,
and our shadow makes another’s dawn,
I gaze pensively at cruel stars,
that have created me of sentient earth:
and I curse the day I saw the sun,
that makes me in aspect like a wild man of the woods.
I do not think that any creature so harsh
grazed the woods, either by night or day,
as she, through whom I weep in sun or shade:
and I am not wearied by first sleep or dawn:
for though I am mortal body of this earth,
my fixed desire comes from the stars.
Might I see pity in her, for one day,
before I return to you, bright stars,
or turning back into cherished woodland,
leave my body changed to dry earth,
it would restore many years, and before dawn
enrich me at the setting of the sun.
May I be with her when the sun departs,
and seen by no one but the stars,
for one sole night, and may there be no dawn:
and may she not be changed to green woodland,
issuing from my arms, as on the day
when Apollo pursued her down here on earth.
But I will be beneath the wood’s dry earth,
and daylight will be full of little stars,
before the sun achieves so sweet a dawn.
April 5, 2026
Mille fïate, o dolce mia guerrera,
per aver co’ begli occhi vostri pace
v’aggio proferto il cor; mâ voi non piace
mirar sí basso colla mente altera.
Et se di lui fors’altra donna spera,
vive in speranza debile et fallace:
mio, perché sdegno ciò ch’a voi dispiace,
esser non può già mai cosí com’era.
Or s’io lo scaccio, et e’ non trova in voi
ne l’exilio infelice alcun soccorso,
né sa star sol, né gire ov’altri il chiama,
poria smarrire il suo natural corso:
che grave colpa fia d’ambeduo noi,
et tanto piú de voi, quanto piú v’ama.
I have offered you my heart a thousand times
O my sweet warrior, only to make peace
with your lovely eyes: but it does not please you
with your noble mind, to stoop so low.
And if some other lady has hope of it,
she lives in powerless, deceiving hope:
and it can never be what it was to me,
since I too disdain what does not please you.
Now if I banish it, and it does not find in you
any aid in its unhappy exile, nor knows
how to be alone, nor to go where others call to it,
it might stray from its natural course:
which would be a grave crime for both of us,
and more for you, since it loves you more.
April 5, 2026
Vergognando talor ch’ancor si taccia,
donna, per me vostra bellezza in rima,
ricorro al tempo ch’i’ vi vidi prima,
tal che null’altra fia mai che mi piaccia.
Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia,
né ovra da polir colla mia lima:
però l’ingegno che sua forza extima
ne l’operatïon tutto s’agghiaccia.
Piú volte già per dir le labbra apersi,
poi rimase la voce in mezzo ‘l pecto:
ma qual sòn poria mai salir tant’alto?
Piú volte incominciai di scriver versi:
ma la penna et la mano et l’intellecto
rimaser vinti nel primier assalto.
Ashamed sometimes that your beauty,
lady, is still silent in my verses,
I recall that time when I first saw it,
such that nothing else could ever please me.
But I find the weight too great for my shoulder,
a work not to be polished by my skill:
the more my wit exercises its force
the more its whole action grows cold.
Many times my lips have opened to speak,
but my voice is stilled in my chest:
who is he who could climb so high?
Many times I’ve begun to scribble verses:
but the pen, the hand, and the intellect
fell back defeated at their first attempt.
April 5, 2026
Son animali al mondo de sí altera
vista che ‘ncontra ‘l sol pur si difende;
altri, però che ‘l gran lume gli offende,
non escon fuor se non verso la sera;
et altri, col desio folle che spera
gioir forse nel foco, perché splende,
provan l’altra vertú, quella che ‘encende:
lasso, e ‘l mio loco è ‘n questa ultima schera.
Ch’i’ non son forte ad aspectar la luce
di questa donna, et non so fare schermi
di luoghi tenebrosi, o d’ ore tarde:
però con gli occhi lagrimosi e ‘nfermi
mio destino a vederla mi conduce;
et so ben ch’i’ vo dietro a quel che m’arde.
There are creatures in the world with such other
vision that it is protected from the full sun:
yet others, because the great light offends them
cannot move around until the evening falls:
and others with mad desire, that hope
perhaps to delight in fire, because it gleams,
prove the other power, that which burns:
alas, and my place is with these last.
I am not strong enough to gaze at the light
of that lady, and do not know how to make a screen
from shadowy places, or the late hour:
yet, with weeping and infirm eyes, my fate
leads me to look on her: and well I know
I wish to go beyond the fire that burns me.
April 5, 2026
Quand’io son tutto vòlto in quella parte
ove ‘l bel viso di madonna luce,
et m’è rimasa nel pensier la luce
che m’arde et strugge dentro a parte a parte,
i’ che temo del cor che mi si parte,
et veggio presso il fin de la mia luce,
vommene in guisa d’orbo, senza luce,
che non sa ove si vada et pur si parte.
Cosí davanti ai colpi de la morte
fuggo: ma non sí ratto che ‘l desio
meco non venga come venir sòle.
Tacito vo, ché le parole morte
farian pianger la gente; et i’ desio
che le lagrime mie si spargan sole.
When I have turned my eyes to that place
where my lady’s lovely face shines,
and that light leaves me not a thought
while I burn and melt away inside,
I fear lest my heart parts from my self,
and seeing the end of my light nearing,
I go like a blind man, without light,
who knows no way to go, but must depart.
I receive so many deadly blows
I flee: but not so quickly that desire
does not come with me as is his wont.
I go silently, since one deadly word
would make men weep: and I desire
that my tears might be shed alone.
April 5, 2026
Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso
con un vento angoscioso di sospiri,
quando in voi adiven che gli occhi giri
per cui sola dal mondo i’ son diviso.
Vero è che ‘l dolce mansüeto riso
pur acqueta gli ardenti miei desiri,
et mi sottragge al foco de’ martiri,
mentr’io son a mirarvi intento et fiso.
Ma gli spiriti miei s’aghiaccian poi
ch’i’ veggio al departir gli atti soavi
torcer da me le mie fatali stelle.
Largata alfin co l’amorose chiavi
l’anima esce del cor per seguir voi;
et con molto pensiero indi si svelle.
Bitter tears pour down my face
with an anguished storm of sighing,
when my eyes chance to turn on you
through whom alone I am lost from the world.
Yet it is true that your soft gentle smile
quietens my ardent desires,
and saves me from the fire of suffering,
while I am intent and fixed on gazing.
But then my spirits are chilled, when I see,
at your departure, my fatal stars
turn their sweet aspect from me.
Released at last by those loving keys,
the spirit leaves the heart to follow you,
and in deep thought, walks on from there.
April 5, 2026
Movesi il vecchierel canuto et biancho
del dolce loco ov’à sua età fornita
et da la famigliuola sbigottita
che vede il caro padre venir manco;
indi trahendo poi l’antiquo fianco
per l’extreme giornate di sua vita,
quanto piú pò, col buon voler s’aita,
rotto dagli anni, et dal cammino stanco;
et viene a Roma, seguendo ‘l desio,
per mirar la sembianza di colui
ch’ancor lassú nel ciel vedere spera:
cosí, lasso, talor vo cerchand’io,
donna, quanto è possibile, in altrui
la disïata vostra forma vera.
Grizzled and white the old man leaves
the sweet place, where he has provided for his life,
and leaves the little family, filled with dismay
that sees its dear father failing it:
then, from there, dragging his aged limbs
through the last days of his life,
aiding himself by what strength of will he can,
broken by years, and wearied by the road:
he reaches Rome, following his desire,
to gaze on the image of Him
whom he hopes to see again in heaven:
so, alas, I sometimes go searching,
lady, as far as is possible, in others
for the true, desired form of you.
April 5, 2026
Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo
col corpo stancho ch’a gran pena porto,
et prendo allor del vostr’aere conforto
che ‘l fa gir oltra dicendo: Oimè lasso!
Poi ripensando al dolce ben ch’io lasso,
al camin lungo et al mio viver corto,
fermo le piante sbigottito et smorto,
et gli occhi in terra lagrimando abasso.
Talor m’assale in mezzo a’tristi pianti
un dubbio: come posson queste membra
da lo spirito lor viver lontane?
Ma rispondemi Amor: Non ti rimembra
che questo è privilegio degli amanti,
sciolti da tutte qualitati humane?
I turn back at every step I take
with weary body that has borne great pain,
and take comfort then from your aspect
that make me go on, saying: Ah me!
Then thinking of the sweet good I leave,
of the long road, and of my brief life,
I halt my steps, dismayed and pale,
and lower my eyes weeping to the ground.
Sometimes a doubt assails me in the midst
of sad tears: how can these limbs
live separated from their spirit?
But Love replies: Do you not remember
that this is the privilege of lovers,
freed from every other human tie?
April 5, 2026
Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch’io vi giro
nel bel viso di quella che v’à morti,
pregovi siate accorti,
ché già vi sfida Amore, ond’io sospiro.
Morte pò chiuder sola a’ miei penseri
l’amoroso camin che gli conduce
al dolce porto de la lor salute;
ma puossi a voi celar la vostra luce
per meno obgetto, perché meno interi
siete formati, et di minor virtute.
Però, dolenti, anzi che sian venute
l’ore del pianto, che son già vicine,
prendete or a la fine
breve conforto a sí lungo martiro.
My weary eyes, there, while I turn you
towards the lovely face of her who slays you,
I pray you guard yourself
since, already, Love challenges you, so that I sigh.
Only Death can close from my thoughts
the loving path that leads them
to the sweet doorway of their blessing;
but your light can hide itself from you
for less reason, since you are formed
as lesser entities, and of less power.
But, grieve, before the hour of tears
is come, that is already near,
take to the end now
brief comfort from such long suffering.
April 5, 2026
Quando fra l’altre donne ad ora ad ora
Amor vien nel bel viso di costei,
quanto ciascuna è men bella di lei
tanto cresce ‘l desio che m’innamora.
I’ benedico il loco e ‘l tempo et l’ora
che sí alto miraron gli occhi mei,
et dico: Anima, assai ringratiar dêi
che fosti a tanto honor degnata allora.
Da lei ti vèn l’amoroso pensero,
che mentre ‘l segui al sommo ben t’invia,
pocho prezando quel ch’ogni huom desia;
da lei vien l’animosa leggiadria
ch’al ciel ti scorge per destro sentero,
sí ch’i’ vo già de la speranza altero.
When from hour to hour among the other ladies
Love appears in her beautiful face,
by as much as their beauty is less than hers
by so much the desire that en-amours me grows.
I bless the place, the time, and the hour
in which my eyes gazed to such a height,
and I say: My spirit, give thanks enough
that you were then found worthy of such honour.
From her to you comes loving thought,
that leads to highest good, while you pursue it,
counting as little what all men desire:
from her comes that spirit full of grace
that shows you heaven by the true way’:
so that in hope I fly, already, to the heights.
April 5, 2026
Se la mia vita da l’aspro tormento
si può tanto schermire, et dagli affanni,
ch’i’ veggia per vertù de gli ultimi anni,
donna, de’ be’ vostr’occhi il lume spento,
e i cape’ d’oro fin farsi d’argento,
et lassar le ghirlande e i verdi panni,
e ‘l viso scolorir che ne’ miei danni
a llamentar mi fa pauroso et lento:
pur mi darà tanta baldanza Amore
ch’i’ vi discovrirò de’ mei martiri
qua’ sono stati gli anni, e i giorni et l’ore;
et se ‘l tempo è contrario ai be’ desiri,
non fia ch’almen non giunga al mio dolore
alcun soccorso di tardi sospiri.
If my life of bitter torment and of tears
could be derided more, and made more troubled,
that I might see, by virtue of your later years,
lady, the light quenched of your beautiful eyes,
and the golden hair spun fine as silver,
and the garland laid aside and the green clothes,
and the delicate face fade, that makes me
fearful and slow to go weeping:
then Love might grant me such confidence
that I’d reveal to you my sufferings
the years lived through, and the days and hours:
and if time is opposed to true desire,
it does not mean no food would nourish my grief:
I might draw some from slow sighs.
April 5, 2026
Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombra,
donna, non vi vid’io
poi che in me conosceste il gran desio
ch’ogni altra voglia d’entr’al cor mi sgombra.
Mentr’io portava i be’ pensier’ celati,
ch’ànno la mente desïando morta,
vidivi di pietate ornare il volto;
ma poi ch’Amor di me vi fece accorta,
fuor i biondi capelli allor velati,
et l’amoroso sguardo in sé raccolto.
Quel ch’i’ piú desiava in voi m’è tolto:
sí mi governa il velo
che per mia morte, et al caldo et al gielo,
de’ be’ vostr’occhi il dolce lume adombra.
I have not seen you, lady,
leave off your veil in sun or shadow,
since you knew that great desire in myself
that all other wishes in the heart desert me.
While I held the lovely thoughts concealed,
that make the mind desire death,
I saw your face adorned with pity:
but when Love made you wary of me,
then blonde hair was veiled,
and loving glances gathered to themselves.
That which I most desired in you is taken from me:
the veil so governs me
that to my death, and by heat and cold,
the sweet light of your lovely eyes is shadowed.
April 5, 2026
Glorïosa columna in cui s’appoggia
nostra speranza e ‘l gran nome latino,
ch’ancor non torse del vero camino
l’ira di Giove per ventosa pioggia,
qui non palazzi, non theatro o loggia,
ma ‘n lor vece un abete, un faggio, un pino
tra l’erba verde e ‘l bel monte vicino,
onde si scende poetando et poggia,
levan di terra al ciel nostr’intellecto;
e ‘l rosigniuol che dolcemente all’ombra
tutte le notti si lamenta et piagne,
d’amorosi penseri il cor ne ‘ngombra:
ma tanto bel sol tronchi, et fai imperfecto,
tu che da noi, signor mio, ti scompagne.
Glorious pillar in whom rests
our hope and the great Latin name,
that Jupiter’s anger through wind and rain
still does not twist from the true way,
who raise our intellect from earth to heaven,
not in a palace, a theatre, or arcade,
but instead in fir, beech or pine,
on the green grass and the lovely nearby mountain,
from which poetry descends and rests;
and the nightingale that laments and weeps
all night long, sweetly, in the shadows,
fills the heart with thoughts of love:
but you by departing from us my lord,
only cut off such beauty, and make it imperfect.
April 5, 2026
Quando ‘l pianeta che distingue l’ore
ad albergar col Tauro si ritorna,
cade vertú da l’infiammate corna
che veste il mondo di novel colore;
et non pur quel che s’apre a noi di fore,
le rive e i colli, di fioretti adorna,
ma dentro dove già mai non s’aggiorna
gravido fa di sé il terrestro humore,
onde tal fructo et simile si colga:
così costei, ch’è tra le donne un sole,
in me movendo de’ begli occhi i rai
crïa d’amor penseri, atti et parole;
ma come ch’ella gli governi o volga,
primavera per me pur non è mai.
When the heavenly body that tells the hours
has returned to the constellation of Taurus,
power from the burning horns descends
that clothes the world with new colours:
and not only in that which lies before us,
banks and hills, adorned with flowers,
but within where already the earthly moisture
pregnant with itself, adds nothing further,
so that fruits and such are gathered:
as she, who is the sun among those ladies,
shining the rays of her lovely eyes on me
creates thoughts of love, actions and words;
but whether she governs them or turns away,
there is no longer any Spring for me.
April 5, 2026
A pie’ de’ colli ove la bella vesta
prese de le terrene membra pria
la donna che colui ch’a te ne ‘nvia
spesso dal somno lagrimando desta,
libere in pace passavam per questa
vita mortal, ch’ogni animal desia,
senza sospetto di trovar fra via
cosa ch’al nostr’andar fosse molesta.
Ma del misero stato ove noi semo
condotte da la vita altra serena
un sol conforto, et de la morte, avemo:
che vendetta è di lui ch’a ciò ne mena,
lo qual in forza altrui presso a l’extremo
riman legato con maggior catena.
At the foot of the hill where beauty’s garment
first clothed that lady with earthly members,
who has often sent wakefulness to him,
who sends us to you, out of melancholy sleep,
we passed by freely in peace through this
mortal life, that all creatures yearn for,
without suspicion of finding, on the way,
anything that would trouble our going.
But in the miserable state where we are
driven from that other serene life
we have one solace only, that is death:
which is his retribution, who led him to this,
he who, in another’s power, near to the end,
remains bound with a heavier chain.
April 5, 2026
La gola e ‘l sonno et l’otïose piume
ànno del mondo ogni vertú sbandita,
ond’è dal corso suo quasi smarrita
nostra natura vinta dal costume;
et è sí spento ogni benigno lume
del ciel, per cui s’informa humana vita,
che per cosa mirabile s’addita
chi vòl far d’Elicona nascer fiume.
Qual vaghezza di lauro, qual di mirto?
Povera et nuda vai philosophia,
dice la turba al vil guadagno intesa.
Pochi compagni avrai per l’altra via:
tanto ti prego piú, gentile spirto,
non lassar la magnanima tua impresa.
Greed and sleep and slothful beds
have banished every virtue from the world,
so that, overcome by habit,
our nature has almost lost its way.
And all the benign lights of heaven,
that inform human life, are so spent,
that he who wishes to bring down a stream
from Helicon is pointed out as a wonder.
Such desire for laurel, and for myrtle?
‘Poor and naked goes philosophy’,
say the crowd intent on base profit.
You’ll have poor company on that other road:
So much the more I beg you, gentle spirit,
not to turn from your great undertaking.
April 5, 2026
Sí travïato è ‘l folle mi’ desio
a seguitar costei che ‘n fuga è volta,
et de’ lacci d’Amor leggiera et sciolta
vola dinanzi al lento correr mio,
che quanto richiamando piú l’envio
per la secura strada, men m’ascolta:
né mi vale spronarlo, o dargli volta,
ch’Amor per sua natura il fa restio.
Et poi che ‘l fren per forza a sé raccoglie,
i’ mi rimango in signoria di lui,
che mal mio grado a morte mi trasporta:
sol per venir al lauro onde si coglie
acerbo frutto, che le piaghe altrui
gustando afflige piú che non conforta.
My passion’s folly is so led astray
by following what turns and flees,
and flies from Love’s light supple noose
in front of my slow pace,
that the more I recall its steps
to the safe road, the less it hears me:
nor does spurring on help me, or turning about,
resisting what Love does by nature.
And then if the bit gathers me to him by force,
I remain in his sovereign power,
so that my state carries me sadly towards death:
only to come to the laurel from which is culled
bitter fruit, whose taste is a worse wound
for others, whom it does not solace.
April 5, 2026
Quando io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi,
e ‘l nome che nel cor mi scrisse Amore,
LAUdando s’incomincia udir di fore
il suon de’ primi dolci accenti suoi.
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Vostro stato REal, che ‘ncontro poi,
raddoppia a l’alta impresa il mio valore;
ma: TAci, grida il fin, ché farle honore
è d’altri homeri soma che da’ tuoi.
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Cosí LAUdare et REverire insegna
la voce stessa, pur ch’altri vi chiami,
o d’ogni reverenza et d’onor degna:
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se non che forse Apollo si disdegna
ch’a parlar de’ suoi sempre verdi rami
lingua mortal presumptüosa vegna.
When I utter sighs, in calling out to you,
with the name that Love wrote on my heart,
the sound of its first sweet accents begin
to be heard within the word LAUdable.
Your REgal state, that I next encounter,
doubles my power for the high attempt;
but: ‘TAcit’, the ending cries, ‘since to do her honour
is for other men’s shoulders, not for yours’.
So, whenever one calls out to you,
the voice itself teaches us to LAud, REvere,
you, O, lady worthy of all reverence and honour:
except perhaps that Apollo is disdainful
that morTAl tongue can be so presumptuous
as to speak of his eternally green branches.
April 5, 2026
Que’ ch’infinita providentia et arte
mostrò nel suo mirabil magistero,
che crïò questo et quell’altro hemispero,
et mansüeto piú Giove che Marte,
vegnendo in terra a ‘lluminar le carte
ch’avean molt’anni già celato il vero,
tolse Giovanni da la rete et Piero,
et nel regno del ciel fece lor parte.
Di sé nascendo a Roma non fe’ gratia,
a Giudea sí, tanto sovr’ogni stato
humiltate exaltar sempre gli piacque;
ed or di picciol borgo un sol n’à dato,
tal che natura e ‘l luogo si ringratia
onde sí bella donna al mondo nacque.
What infinite providence and art
He showed in his wonderful mastery,
who created this and the other hemisphere,
and Jupiter far gentler than Mars,
descending to earth to illuminate the page
which had for many years concealed the truth,
taking John from the nets, and Peter,
and making them part of heaven’s kingdom.
It did not please him to be born in Rome,
but in Judea: to exalt humility
to such a supreme state always pleases him;
and now from a little village a sun is given,
such that the place, and nature, praise themselves,
out of which so lovely a lady is born to the world.
April 5, 2026
Era il giorno ch’al sol si scoloraro
per la pietà del suo factore i rai,
quando i’ fui preso, et non me ne guardai,
ché i be’ vostr’occhi, donna, mi legaro.
Tempo non mi parea da far riparo
contra colpi d’Amor: però m’andai
secur, senza sospetto; onde i miei guai
nel commune dolor s’incominciaro.
Trovommi Amor del tutto disarmato
et aperta la via per gli occhi al core,
che di lagrime son fatti uscio et varco:
però al mio parer non li fu honore
ferir me de saetta in quello stato,
a voi armata non mostrar pur l’arco.
It was on that day when the sun’s ray
was darkened in pity for its Maker,
that I was captured, and did not defend myself,
because your lovely eyes had bound me, Lady.
It did not seem to me to be a time to guard myself
against Love’s blows: so I went on
confident, unsuspecting; from that, my troubles
started, amongst the public sorrows.
Love discovered me all weaponless,
and opened the way to the heart through the eyes,
which are made the passageways and doors of tears:
so that it seems to me it does him little honour
to wound me with his arrow, in that state,
he not showing his bow at all to you who are armed.
April 5, 2026
Per fare una leggiadra sua vendetta
et punire in un dí ben mille offese,
celatamente Amor l’arco riprese,
come huom ch’a nocer luogo et tempo aspetta.
Era la mia virtute al cor ristretta
per far ivi et ne gli occhi sue difese,
quando ‘l colpo mortal là giú discese
ove solea spuntarsi ogni saetta.
Però, turbata nel primiero assalto,
non ebbe tanto né vigor né spazio
che potesse al bisogno prender l’arme,
overo al poggio faticoso et alto
ritrarmi accortamente da lo strazio
del quale oggi vorrebbe, et non pò, aitarme.
To make a graceful act of revenge,
and punish a thousand wrongs in a single day,
Love secretly took up his bow again,
like a man who waits the time and place to strike.
My power was constricted in my heart,
making defence there, and in my eyes,
when the mortal blow descended there,
where all other arrows had been blunted.
So, confused by the first assault,
it had no opportunity or strength
to take up arms when they were needed,
Or withdraw me shrewdly to the high,
steep hill, out of the torment,
from which it wishes to save me now but cannot.
April 5, 2026
Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond’io nudriva ‘l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore
quand’era in parte altr’uom da quel ch’i’ sono,
del vario stile in ch’io piango et ragiono
fra le vane speranze e ‘l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore,
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono.
Ma ben veggio or si come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me mesdesmo meco mi vergogno;
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 1 frutto,
e ‘l pentersi, e ‘l conoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.
You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,
I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials.
Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;
and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world’s delight is a brief dream.