Petrarch Page 28

  pur che ben desiando i’ mi consume

  né le dispiaccia che per lei sospiri.

  164

  Or che ’l ciel et la terra e ’l vento tace

  et le fere e gli augelli il sonno affrena,

  notte il carro stellato in giro mena

  et nel suo letto il mar senz’ onda giace,

  vegghio, penso, ardo, piango; et chi mi sface

  sempre m’è inanzi per mia dolce pena:

  guerra è ’l mio stato, d’ira e di duol piena,

  et sol di lei pensando ò qualche pace.

  Così sol d’una chiara fonte viva

  move ’l dolce et l’amaro ond’ io mi pasco,

  una man sola mi risana et punge;

  et perché ’l mio martir non giunga a riva,

  mille volte il di moro et mille nasco,

  tanto da la salute mia son lunge.

  163

  Love, you who see my every thought clear through

  and those hard steps where only you can guide me,

  let your eyes reach to my heart’s deepest part

  that’s clear to you but hidden to all others.

  You know what I have suffered following you,

  and still from day to day, from mount to mount

  you climb up unaware that I am there,

  that I’m so weary, and the path’s too steep.

  I do see in the distance that sweet light

  with which you spur and turn me by hard ways,

  but unlike you I have no wings to fly.

  Quite satisfied you leave all my desires

  as long as I’m consumed with loving well,

  and that I sigh for her does not displease her.

  164

  Now that the heavens, earth and wind are silent

  and sleep has beast and bird in its control,

  while night is driving round her car of stars

  and in its bed the sea rests wavelessly;

  awake, I think, burn, weep; and who destroys me

  is always in my mind to my sweet pain:

  war is my state, I’m full of grief and anger—

  only the thought of her gives me some peace.

  So from one clear and living font alone

  there springs the sweet and bitter that I feed on;

  one hand alone can heal and wound me both;

  and that my suffering may never end

  I’m born and die a thousand times a day,

  so far away am I from my salvation.

  165

  Come ’l candido pie’ per l’erba fresca

  i dolci passi onestamente move,

  vertù che ’ntorno i fiori apra et rinove

  de le tenere piante sue par ch’ esca.

  Amor, che solo i cor leggiadri invesca

  né degna di provar sua forza altrove,

  da’ begli occhi un piacer sì caldo piove

  ch’ i’ non curo altro ben né bramo altr’esca.

  Et co l’andar et col soave sguardo

  s’accordan le dolcissime parole

  et l’atto mansueto umile et tardo.

  Di tai quattro faville, et non già sole,

  nasce ’l gran foco di ch’ io vivo et ardo,

  che son fatto un augel notturno al sole.

  166

  S’ i’ fussi stato fermo a la spelunca

  là dove Apollo diventò profeta,

  Fiorenza avria forse oggi il suo poeta,

  non pur Verona et Mantoa et Arunca;

  ma perché ’l mio ierren più non s’ingiunca

  de l’umor di quel sasso, altro pianeta

  conven ch’ i’ segua et del mio campo mieta

  lappole et stecchi co la falce adunca.

  L’oliva è secca, et è rivolta altrove

  l’acqua che di Parnaso si deriva,

  per cui in alcun tempo ella fioriva.

  Così sventura o ver colpa mi priva

  d’ogni buon frutto, se l’eterno Giove

  de la sua grazia sopra me non piove.

  165

  As soon as her white foot through the fresh grass

  begins to take its decorous sweet steps,

  a force that seems to come from her soft soles

  renews and opens flowers that surround her.

  Love, who entangles only gentle hearts

  and does not deign to try his power elsewhere,

  makes her fair eyes rain with delight so warm,

  no other good, no other bait I yearn for.

  And with her walk and with her look of softness

  accord these words of hers of highest sweetness,

  as do her gestures mild and slow and humble.

  From those four sparks, and not from them alone,

  comes that great blaze on which I live and burn—

  I have become a nightbird in the sun.

  166

  Had I decided to stay in the cave,

  in that place where Apollo became prophet,

  Florence today, perhaps, would have its poet,

  not just Verona, Mantua, and Arunca;

  but since my land no longer springs with reeds

  from water of that rock, another planet

  I’m forced to follow and reap from my field

  thistles and thorns by means of my hooked scythe.

  The olive tree is withered and the waters

  springing from Parnassus have turned elsewhere

  that at one time would keep it in full bloom.

  It’s fault then or misfortune that deprives me

  of all good fruit, if that eternal Jove

  does not rain down upon me with his grace.

  167

  Quando Amor i belli occhi a terra inchina,

  e i vaghi spirti in un sospiro accoglie

  co le sue mani, et poi in voce gli scioglie

  chiara, soave, angelica, divina,

  sento far del mio cor dolce rapina

  et si dentro cangiar penseri et voglie

  ch’ i’ dico: “Or fien di me l’ultime spoglie:

  se ’l ciel sì onesta morte mi destina.”

  Ma ’l suon che di dolcezza i sensi lega

  col gran desir d’udendo esser beata

  l’anima al dipartir presta raffrena;

  così mi vivo, et così avolge et spiega

  lo stame de la vita che m’è data

  questa sola fra noi del ciel sirena.

  168

  Amor mi manda quel dolce pensero

  che secretario antico è fra noi due,

  et mi conforta et dice che non fue

  mai come or presto a quel ch’ io bramo et spero.

  Io, che talor menzogna et talor vero

  ò ritrovato le parole sue,

  non so s’il creda, et vivomi intra due:

  né sì né no nel cor mi sona intero.

  In questa passa ’l tempo, et ne lo specchio

  mi veggio andar ver la stagion contraria

  a sua impromessa et a la mia speranza.

  Or sia che po: già sol io non invecchio;

  già per etate il mio desir non varia;

  ben temo il viver breve che n’avanza.

  167

  When Love lowers her fair eyes to the ground

  and with his hands gathers her wandering breath

  into a sigh, then frees it in a voice

  that’s clear, angelic, soft, and so divine,

  I feel my heart is being sweetly ravished,

  my thoughts and wishes changed so there inside

  that I say: “Now here comes the final plunder,

  if Heaven destines me to die so well.”

  But sound which binds my senses with its sweetness

  holds back my soul now ready to depart

  with great desire to be blessed with listening;

  this way I live, this way she winds and unwinds

  the spool of life that has been given me,

  this, heaven’s only siren here among us.

  168

&nbs
p; Love sends me that sweet thought, the one that is

  a confidant of old between us two,

  and comforts me and says I never was

  so close to what I yearn and hope for now.

  I, who have found his words at times a lie,

  at times the truth, do not know if I can

  believe him, and I live between the two:

  not yes, not no rings true within my heart.

  Meanwhile time passes, and the mirror shows

  myself nearing the time that contradicts

  both what he promises and my own hope.

  So be it; but, not only I grow old;

  and yes, my age does not change my desire;

  I do fear, though, the short time left to live.

  169

  Pien d’un vago penser che me desvia

  da tutti gli altri et fammi al mondo ir solo,

  ad or ad ora a me stesso m’involo,

  pur lei cercando che fuggir devria;

  et veggiola passar sì dolce et ria

  che l’alma trema per levarsi a volo,

  tal d’armati sospir conduce stuolo

  questa bella d’Amor nemica et mia.

  Ben, si i’ non erro, di pietate un raggio

  scorgo fra ’l nubiloso altero ciglio,

  che ’n parte rasserena il cor doglioso;

  allor raccolgo l’alma, et poi ch’ i’ aggio

  di scovrirle il mio mal preso consiglio,

  tanto gli ò a dir che ’ncominciar non oso.

  170

  Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano

  ò preso ardir co le mie fide scorte

  d’assalir con parole oneste accorte

  la mia nemica in atto umile et piano.

  Fanno poi gli occhi suoi mio penser vano

  per ch’ ogni mia fortuna, ogni mia sorte,

  mio ben, mio male, et mia vita et mia morte

  quei che solo il po far l’à posto in mano.

  Ond’ io non pote’ mai formar parola

  ch’ altro che da me stesso fosse intesa,

  così m’à fatto Amor tremante et fioco.

  Et veggi’ or ben che caritate accesa

  lega la lingua altrui, gli spirti invola:

  chi po dir com’ egli arde è ’n picciol foco.

  169

  Full of a loving thought, that makes me stray

  from all the rest and go the world alone,

  I steal myself away from me at times

  and search for her alone whom I should flee;

  I see her walking by so sweet and hard

  that my soul shakes, about to take to flight,

  for such an army of armed sighs she leads,

  this lovely one, Love’s enemy and mine.

  It’s true, if I’m not wrong, I see a ray

  of pity on her cloudy and proud brow

  that clears in part the sorrow in my heart;

  then I collect my soul, and once decided

  to show my hurt to her, I find there is

  so much to tell her, I dare not begin.

  170

  Sometimes from her expression fair and kind

  I’ve been encouraged with my faithful guides

  to assail with words of virtue and of skill

  my enemy of humble, modest bearing;

  but then my thought is emptied by her eyes,

  for all my fortune, all my destiny,

  my good, my bad, my life, my death that one—

  the only one who can—placed in her hands.

  And so, I never could construct a word

  that anyone but me could understand,

  so weak and so unsteady Love has made me.

  And I see clearly how a burning love

  can bind somebody’s tongue and steal his breath.

  Who can say how he burns, burns but a little.

  171

  Giunto m’à Amor fra belle et crude braccia

  che m’ancidono a torto, et s’ io mi doglio

  doppia ’l martir; onde pur com’ io soglio

  il meglio è ch’ io mi mora amando et taccia;

  ché poria questa il Ren qualor più agghiaccia

  arder con gli occhi, et rompre ogni aspro scoglio,

  et à sì egual a le bellezze orgoglio

  che di piacer altrui par che le spiaccia.

  Nulla posso levar io per mi’ ’ngegno

  del bel diamante ond’ ell’ à il cor si duro,

  l’altro è d’un marmo che si mova et spiri;

  ned ella a me, per tutto ’l suo disdegno

  torrà giamai, né per sembiante oscuro,

  le mie speranze e i mei dolci sospiri.

  172

  O Invidia nimica di vertute,

  ch’ a’ bei principii volentier contrasti,

  per qual sentier così tacita intrasti

  in quel bel petto, et con qual arti il mute?

  Da radice n’ài svelta mia salute:

  troppo felice amante mi mostrasti

  a quella che’ miei preghi umili et casti

  gradì alcun tempo, or par ch’ odi’ et refute.

  Né però che con atti acerbi et rei

  del mio ben pianga e del mio pianger rida

  poria cangiar sol un de’ pensier mei,

  non perché mille volte il dì m’ancida

  fia ch’ io non l’ami et ch’ i’ non speri in lei;

  ché s’ ella mi spaventa, Amor m’affida.

  171

  Love’s given me to hard and lovely arms

  that kill unjustly, and if I complain,

  my suffering he doubles; so it is better

  I die in love and silence as I’m wont;

  her eyes could burn the Rhine when it’s most frozen

  and break its every hard and icy ridge;

  so equal is her pride to all her beauty

  that pleasing others seems to displease her.

  There is no way that I can chip a part

  of her heart’s lovely diamond that’s so hard—

  the rest of her that moves and breathes is marble;

  neither can she, for all of her disdain,

  for all of her dark glances, ever take

  away from me my hopes and my sweet sighs.

  172

  O Envy, you the enemy of virtue,

  who gladly fights against all good beginnings,

  what path led you so silently to enter

  that lovely breast; with what art do you change it?

  You’ve pulled out my salvation by its roots!

  You showed me as too fortunate a lover

  to her who liked my pure and humble prayers

  a while, and now appears to hate and spurn them.

  And though with gestures hard and cruel she weeps

  at my own good and at my weeping laughs,

  she cannot change a single thought of mine;

  though she kill me a thousand times a day,

  I’ll love her still and always hope in her;

  Love reassures me, though she frightens me.

  173

  Mirando ’l sol de’ begli occhi sereno

  ov’ è chi spesso i miei depinge et bagna,

  dal cor l’anima stanca si scompagna

  per gir nel paradiso suo terreno;

  poi trovandol di dolce et d’amar pieno,

  quant’ al mondo si tesse opra d’aragna

  vede, onde seco et con Amor si lagna,

  ch’ à sì caldi gli spron, sì duro ’l freno.

  Per questi estremi duo contrari et misti,

  or con voglie gelate, or con accese,

  stassi così fra misera et felice;

  ma pochi lieti et molti penser tristi,

  e ’l più si pente de l’ardite imprese,

  tal frutto nasce di cotal radice.

  174

  Fera Stella (se ’l cielo à forza in noi

  quant’ alcun crede) fu sotto ch’ io nacqui,

  et fera cuna dove nato giacqui,

  et f
era terra ov ’e’ pie’ mossi poi,

  et fera donna che con gli occhi suoi

  et con l’arco a cui sol per segno piacqui

  fe’ la piaga onde, Amor, teco non tacqui,

  ché con quell’arme risaldar la poi.

  Ma tu prendi a diletto i dolor miei;

  ella non già, perché non son più duri,

  e ’l colpo è di saetta et non di spiedo.

  Pur mi consola che languir per lei

  meglio è che gioir d’altra, et tu mel giuri

  per l’orato tuo strale, et io tel credo.

  173

  While gazing at the clear sun of fair eyes

  where dwells the one who wets and colors mine,

  my weary soul detaches from my heart

  and travels to its earthly paradise;

  then finding it all full of bitter sweetness,

  it sees that everything the world has spun

  is spiderwebs, and it complains to Love,

  whose spurs are very hot, whose bit so hard.

  Between these two extremes mixed and contrasting,

  now with desire frozen, now aflame,

  there it remains, half miserable half happy;

  it has few joyful thoughts and many sad ones,

  and mostly it repents for its bold action;

  from such a root as this such fruit is born.

  174

  Cruel was the star beneath which I was born

  (if the heavens have such power as some think),

  and cruel the cradle where I lay new born,

  and cruel the ground on which I later stepped,

  and cruel the lady who would with her eyes

  and bow (she liked me only as a target)

  inflict that wound I’ve mentioned to you, Love,

  for with those very weapons you can heal it.

  But you take great delight in all my pain;

  not that she does, for it’s not harsh enough;

  the blow comes from an arrow not a spear.

  Yet I’m consoled: better to languish for her

  than to enjoy another—this you swear

  to me by your gold shaft, and I believe you.