Petrarch (22 page)

Io son già stanco di pensar si come

i miei pensier in voi stanchi non sono

et come vita ancor non abbandono

per fuggir de’ sospir sì gravi some;

et come a dir del viso et de le chiome

et de’ begli occhi ond’ io sempre ragiono

non è mancata omai la lingua e ’l suono,

di et notte chiamando il vostro nome;

et che’ pie’ miei non son fiaccati et lassi

a seguir l’orme vostre in ogni parte,

perdendo inutilmente tanti passi;

et onde vien l’enchiostro, onde le carte

ch’ i’ vo empiendo di voi (se ’n ciò fallassi,

colpa d’Amor, non già defetto d’arte).

and I live in desire beyond hope.

If only the tight knot

which Love ties round my tongue on the occasion

when too much light
wins over human sight

were loosened
, I would gather up the courage

right then and there to speak words so unusual

they would make anyone who hears them weep.

But
those wounds deeply pressed

then force my wounded heart to turn away,

and from this I turn pale,

and
my blood runs to hide
, I know not where,

nor am I what I was
; and I’m aware

this is the blow
with which Love dealt me death.

Song, I can feel my pen already tired

from talking long and sweetly by its means,

but not of all my thoughts
that speak to me
.

I am already weary of my thinking

how all my thoughts of you are never weary

and how I haven’t yet abandoned life

to flee the burden of such heavy sighs;

and how, in speaking of your
face and hair

and lovely eyes I always talk about,

I have not lost my tongue and voice by now

from calling out your name by day and night;

and that
my feet are not worn out
and tired

of
following your footprints
everywhere,

and
wasting uselessly
so many steps;

and where does all the ink come from, the paper

I
fill with you
—
if I am wrong
in this,

the fault
is Love’s and
not the lack of art
.

I begli occhi ond’ i’ fui percosso in guisa

ch’ e’ medesmi porian saldar la piaga,

et non già vertù d’erbe o d’arte maga

o di pietra dal mar nostro divisa,

m’ànno la via sì d’altro amor precisa

ch’ un sol dolce penser l’anima appaga;

et se la lingua di seguirlo è vaga

la scorta po, non ella, esser derisa.

Questi son que’ begli occhi che l’imprese

del mio signor vittoriose fanno

in ogni parte et più sovra ’l mio fianco;

questi son que’ begli occhi che mi stanno

sempre nel cor colle faville accese,

perch’ io di lor parlando non mi stanco.

Amor con sue promesse lusingando

mi ricondusse a la prigione antica,

et die’ le chiavi a quella mia nemica

ch’ ancor me di me stesso tene in bando.

Non me n’avidi, lasso, se non quando

fui in lor forza; et or con gran fatica

(chi ’l crederà, perché giurando i’ ’l dica?)

in libertà ritorno sospirando;

et come vero prigioniero afflitto

de le catene mie gran parte porto

e ’l cor negli occhi et ne la fronte ò scritto.

Quando sarai del mio colore accorto

dirai: “S’ i’ guardo et giudico ben dritto,

questi avea poco andare ad esser morto.”

The lovely eyes, that struck me in a way

so only they themselves
can heal the wound

and not the force of
herbs or magic art

or that of stone found far beyond our sea,

have blocked my road
from any other love

and left but
one sweet thought
to calm the soul;

and if the tongue
is fond of following it,

the guide, and not my tongue, should be derided.

These are those lovely eyes
which
make the banners

of my lord fly in victory everywhere

especially there over my own heart’s side;

these are those lovely eyes that are alive

forever in my heart
with flaming sparks
,

and speaking of them never tires me.

Love, by alluring me
with promises,

led me again into
my ancient prison
,

giving the keys to my own enemy

who still keeps me in exile from myself.

Alas,
I did not know
it, not until

they had me in their power; with great distress

(
who would believe it
, though I swear it’s true?)

I now
return to freedom
with my sighs,

and like a prisoner who truly suffers

I bear most of the marks that chain me down

and in my eyes and brow
my heart is signed
.

As soon as you take notice of my color,

you’ll say: “If what I see and judge is right,

this man has
little time before he’s dead
.”

Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso

con gli altri ch’ ebber fama di quell’arte,

mill’ anni non vedrian la minor parte

delia beltà che m’àve il cor conquiso.

Ma certo il mio Simon fu in Paradiso

onde questa gentil donna si parte;

ivi la vide, et la ritrasse in carte

per far fede qua giù del suo bel viso.

L’opra fu ben di quelle che nel cielo

si ponno imaginar, non qui tra noi,

ove le membra fanno a l’aima velo;

cortesia fe’, né la potea far poi

che fu disceso a provar caldo et gielo

et del mortal sentiron gli occhi suoi.

Quando giunse a Simon l’alto concetto

ch’ a mio nome gli pose in man lo stile,

s’ avesse dato a l’opera gentile

colla figura voce ed intelletto,

di sospir molti mi sgombrava il petto

che ciò ch’ altri à più caro a me fan vile.

Però che ’n vista ella si monstra umile,

promettendomi pace ne l’aspetto,

ma poi ch’ i’ vengo a ragionar con lei,

benignamente assai par che m’ascolte:

se risponder savesse a’ detti miei!

Pigmaliòn, quanto lodar ti dei

de l’imagine tua, se mille volte

n’avesti quel ch’ i’ sol una vorrei!

No matter how hard
Polyclitus
looked,

and
all the others
famous for that art,

not in a thousand years would they see even

part of the beauty
that has won my heart.

For certain my friend
Simon was in Heaven
,

the place from which this
gracious lady comes
;

he saw her there and copied her on paper

as proof down here
of such a lovely face.

The work is one that only up in Heaven

could be imagined, not down here with us

where body serves as veil for souls to wear—

a gracious deed that could not have been done

once
he came down
to feel the heat and cold

and his eyes saw their own mortality.

When Simon first received that high idea

which for my sake he used his drawing pen,

had he then given to his gracious work

a voice and intellect as well as form,

he would have freed
my breast of many sighs

that make what others cherish vile to me,

for she appears so humble in her image

and her expression promises me peace.

And then when I
begin to speak to her
,

most kindly she appears to hear me speak—

if only she could answer what I say!

Pygmalion
, how happy you should be

with your creation, since
a thousand times

you have received what I
yearn for just once
!

S’ al principio risponde il fine e ’l mezzo

del quartodecimo anno ch’ io sospiro,

più non mi po scampar l’aura né ’l rezzo,

si crescer sento ’l mio ardente desiro.

Amor, con cui pensier mai non amezzo,

sotto ’l cui giogo giamai non respiro,

tal mi governa ch’ i’ non son già mezzo

per gli occhi ch’ al mio mal si spesso giro.

Così mancando vo di giorno in giorno

si chiusamente ch’ i’ sol me n’accorgo

et quella che guardando il cor mi strugge;

a pena infin a qui l’anima scorgo,

né so quanto fia meco il suo soggiorno,

ché la morte s’appressa e ’l viver fugge.

Chi è fermato di menar sua vita

su per l’onde fallad et per li scogli,

scevro da morte con un picciol legno,

non po molto lontan esser dal fine;

però sarebbe da ritrarsi in porto

mentre al governo ancor crede la vela.

L’aura soave a cui governo et vela

commisi, entrando a l’amorosa vita

et sperando venire a miglior porto,

poi mi condusse in più di mille scogli;

et le cagion del mio doglioso fine

non pur dintorno avea, ma dentro al legno.

Chiuso gran tempo in questo cieco legno

errai senza levar occhio a la vela

ch’ anzi al mio di mi trasportava al fine;

poi piacque a lui che mi produsse in vita

If end and middle
answer to the start

of this the fourteenth year of all my sighs,

no longer can
cool shade or aura
save me,

burning desire grows so strong in me.

Love, he the one
with whom I’m undivided
,

under whose yoke I
never breathe with ease
,

rules over me
so that I’m less than half

from
too much looking
at what is my hurt.

And so from day to day I keep on failing

so secretly that I alone can see,

and
she who looking at me
breaks my heart.

I’ve hardly kept my soul with me till now

nor do I know how long it plans to stay,

for my life flees as death comes ever closer.

He who
made up his mind
to lead a life

upon deceiving waves
and near the rocks

detached from death
and
in a little bark
,

cannot be very far
from his own end
;

he would do well now to return to port

while still his tiller can control the sail.

The gentle aura
to whom tiller and sail

I gave on entering
this amorous life

with hope of coming
to a better port
,

then led me to
more than a thousand rocks
;

the reason for so sorrowful an end

were less the things outside
than in the bark
.

Closed in so long a time
in this blind bark

I
wandered never looking
at the sail

that was taking me early to my end;

and then it
pleased the one
who gave me life

chiamarme tanto indietro da li scogli

ch’ almen da lunge m’apparisse il porto.

Come lume di notte in alcun porto

vide mai d’alto mar nave né legno,

se non gliel tolse o tempestate o scogli,

così di su la gonfiata vela

vid’ io le ’nsegne di quell’altra vita;

et allor sospirai verso ’l mio fine.

Non perch’ io sia securo ancor del fine,

ché volendo col giorno esser a porto

è gran viaggio in così poca vita;

poi temo, che mi veggio in fraile legno

et più non vorrei piena la vela

del vento che mi pinse in questi scogli.

S’ io esca vivo de’ dubbiosi scogli

et arrive il mio esilio ad un bel fine,

ch’ i’ sarei vago di voltar la vela

et l’àncore gittar in qualche porto!

Se non ch’ i’ ardo come acceso legno,

si m’ è duro a lassar l’usata vita.

Signor de la mia fine et de la vita:

prima ch’ i’ fiacchi il legno tra li scogli

drizza a buon porto l’affannata vela.

to call me back a distance from the rocks,

at least enough, though far,
to see the port
.

Just as a light
at nighttime in some port

is seen from the high sea by boat or bark,

if not obscured by tempest or by rocks,

with equal joy above the swollen sail

I saw the ensigns
of that other life;

then with desire
I sighed for my end
.

And
not because I’m sure yet
of the end,

for, wishing
with the daylight
to reach port,

the trip is long for such a little life;

and I’m afraid, for
fragile is my bark
,

and more than I would wish I see the sail

full of the wind that drove me to these rocks.

May I survive from all these
perilous rocks

and may my exile come to a good end;

how glad I would be then to turn the sail

and cast the anchor somewhere in a port!

But I am burning now like kindled bark,

so hard it is to
change my way of life
.

Lord of my end and my entire life:

before my bark is shattered on the rocks,

direct to a good port my weary sail.

Io son sì stanco sotto ’l fascio antico

de le mie colpe et de l’usanza ria,

ch’ i’ temo forte di mancar tra via

et di cader in man del mio nemico.

Ben venne a dilivrarmi un grande amico