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
“Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year, and the season, and the time, and the hour, and the moment…”(Kline).
vIo 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.’
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
<br>
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.
<br>
Cosí LAUdare et REverire insegna
la voce stessa, pur ch’altri vi chiami,
o d’ogni reverenza et d’onor degna:
<br>
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.