Petrarch (14 page)

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Authors: Mark Musa

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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 ancor non ti si tolle.”

32

The closer that I come to
the last day

that seems to shorten human misery

the more I see time
running swift and light

and all
my hope in him
deceived and vain.

I tell my thoughts: “
We won’t talk much of love

for very long now, for this hard and heavy

earthly burden, like freshly fallen snow

is melting, and at last we shall know peace,

“since with the weight there also
falls that hope

which made us go on raving for so long:

the laughter and the tears and fears and anger;


then clearly we shall see
how often here

one chases after things that are uncertain

and how so often one must sigh in vain.”

33

The
star of love
already was aglow

thoughout the East, and wheeling in the North,

its rays shining and lovely,
was the other

star known to fill Juno with jealousy;

the poor old woman
, barefoot and undressed,

has just got up to spin and wake the coals,

and
piercing lovers
was that time of day

which always seems to summon them to tears,

when hope of mine,
by now cut to the quick
,

filled in my heart,
not by the usual way
,

for sleeping kept that closed and grief kept wet.

How changed
, alas, from what she once had been!

She seemed to say: “Why do you lose your courage?

To see these eyes is
not denied you yet
.”

34

Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio

che t’infiammava a le tesaliche onde,

et se non ài l’amate chiome bionde,

volgendo gli anni, già poste in oblio,

dal pigro gelo 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 vertù de l’amorosa speme

che ti sostenne ne la vita acerba,

di queste impression l’aere disgombra;

sì vedrem poi per meraviglia inseme

seder la donna nostra sopra l’erba

et far de la sue braccia a se stessa ombra.

35

Solo et pensoso i più deserti campi

vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti,

et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti

ove vestigio uman la rena stampi.

Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi

dal manifesto accorger de le genti,

perché negli atti d’allegrezza spenti

di fuor si legge com’ io dentro avampi.

Sì 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 sì aspre vie né sì selvagge

cercar non so ch’ Amor non venga sempre

ragionando con meco, et io con lui.

34

Apollo,
if the lovely wish still lives

that made you burn on
Thessalian wave
,

and if those blond and cherished locks of hers

you have not with the passing years forgotten,

from
lazy frost
and weather harsh and cruel

which lasts as long as you
conceal your face
,

now come defend the
honored, sacred leaf

by which you first and then I, too,
was snared
;

and then by virtue of the amorous hope

that kept you going through
your bitter life
,

make clear
the atmosphere of such impression;

then we shall see together, wondrously,

our lady sitting there upon the grass,

her arms casting their shade
around herself.

35

Alone and deep in thought
I measure out

the most deserted fields,
with slow, late steps
,

with eyes intent to flee whatever sign

of human footprint
left within the sand
.

I find no other shield
for my protection

against the knowing glances of mankind,

for in my bearing
all bereft of joy

one sees from outside how I burn within.

So now, I think, only the plains and mountains,

the rivers and the forests know the kind

of life I lead, the one concealed from all.

And still, I never seem to find
a path

too harsh, too wild for Love to always join

me and
to speak to me
, and I to him!

36

S’ io credesse per morte essere scarco

del pensiero amoroso che m’atterra,

colle mie mani avrei già posto in terra

queste membra noiose et quello incarco;

ma perch’ io temo che sarebbe un varco

di pianto in pianto et d’una in altra guerra,

di qua dal passo ancor che mi si serra

mezzo rimango, lasso, et mezzo il varco.

Tempo ben fora omai d’avere spinto

l’ultimo stral la dispietata
cord
a

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.

37

Sì 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 in fin a qui cagion ch’ io viva,

dicendo: “Perché priva

sia de l’amata vista,

mantienti, anima trista;

che sai s’ a miglior tempo anco ritorni

et a più 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.

36

If I thought that by death I would be lightened

of this amorous care that weighs me down,

by now, by my own hand I would have buried

these
loathsome limbs
of mine and that weight too;

but since I fear that it would be
a passage

from grief to grief, from one war to another,

on this side of the pass
still closed to me

I half remain (oh grief) and
half cross over
.

And it is high time that the merciless cord

release now from its bow the final arrow,

already wet and
stained with others’ blood
;

and
I beg Love
for this and that deaf one

who left me painted shades
of her own color

and
who forgets
to call me to herself.

37

So fragile is the thread on which there hangs

this heavy life of mine

that
if help does not come

it will have soon run to its journey’s end,

Because once I had taken my cruel leave

from that sweet good of mine,

only a single hope

allows me
until now
to live my life

saying: “Though you’re deprived

of the beloved sight,

hold on to life, sad soul;

who knows, you may return to better times

and to more happy days,

or even regain all of the good you lost?”

This hope sustained me once upon a time,

now it declines and I grow old in it.

Il tempo passa et l’ore son sì pronte

a fornire il viaggio,

ch’ assai spazio non aggio

pur a pensar com’ io corro a la morte;

a pena spunta in oriente un raggio

di sol, ch’ a l’altro monte

de l’adverso orizonte

giunto il vedrai per vie lunghe et distorte.

Le vite son sì corte,

sì 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 esilio più m’aggravi,

s’ io dormo o vado o seggio

altro giamai 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 più mi consumi,

et quanto era mia vita allor gioiosa

m’insegni la presente aspra et noiosa.

Lasso, se ragionando si rinfresca

quell’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’esca

onde ’l mio dolor cresca,

et perché pria tacendo non m’impetro?

Time flies and every hour is so quick

to
terminate the journey

that there’s not time enough

for me to think of
how I race to death
;

as soon as you see in the East a ray

of sun you see it reach

the opposite horizon

arrived along its
long and coiling path
.

So short is every life,

so heavy and so frail

mankind’s mortal body,

that when I find myself from that sweet face

so greatly separated,

without power
to fly with my desire,

little is left me of my usual comfort,

nor do I know how long I’ll live like this.

I grieve in every place I cannot see

those lovely, gracious eyes

that carried off
the keys

of my sweet thoughts as long as it pleased God,

and so that my hard exile be more painful,

when sleeping, walking, sitting

I beg for nothing else,

and
having seen them
, nothing gives me pleasure.

How many hills and brooks,

how many seas and streams

hide those two lights from me

that like the clarity of noonday skies

would
make all of my darkness
,

so that
remembering may consume me more

and that from my bitter and burdened present

I may learn how my life was joyous then.

Alas, if talking this way
can renew

that ardent wish of mine

born on the day that I

had left behind me the best part of me,

and if with long forgetfulness love fades,

who leads me to the bait

so that my grief grows greater?

Why not choose
silence first and turn to stone?

Certo, cristallo o vetro

non mostrò mai di fore

nascosto altro colore

che l’aima sconsolata assai non mostri

più chiari i pensier nostri

et la fera dolcezza ch’ è nel core

per gli occhi, che di sempre pianger vaghi

cercan di et notte pur chi glie n’appaghi.

Novo piacer che ne gli umani ingegni

spesse volte si trova,

d’amar qual cosa nova

più 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, sì come ’l cor di doglia.

Et perché a ciò m’invoglia

ragionar de’ begli occhi

né cosa è che mi tocchi

o sentir mi si faccia così a dentro,

corro spesso et rientro

colà donde più largo il duol trabocchi

et sien col cor punite ambe le luci

ch’ a la strada d’Amor mi furon duci.

Le treccie d’or che devrien fare il sole

d’invidia molta ir pieno,

e ’l bel guardo sereno

ove i raggi d’Amor sì 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

più 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 giamai

che mi conforte ad altro ch’ a trar guai.

For certain, glass or crystal

never revealed more clearly

its inside, hidden color

than my disconsolate soul makes manifest

the thoughts inside of me

and all the
savage sweetness
in the heart

seen through the eyes, ready always to weep,

that night and day seek her alone who calms them.

How strange the pleasure that is often found

within the human mind

to love any strange thing

that brings with it the thickest swarm of sighs!

And I am one of those who
thrives on weeping
,

who seems to put his mind

to keeping full of tears

my eyes, just as my heart is full of sorrow.

Since speaking of those eyes

involves me in this state

(nothing touches me more

or moves me to the depths of my insides),

I often run and hide

therein so that my grief may overflow

and both my eyes be punished with my heart

because
they were my guides
along Love’s road.

The golden hair
that ought to make the sun

revolve in all its envy,

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