Petrarch (34 page)

glowing desire in me turns to sparks

enough to set a
dead soul
all aflame;

and then I find the
lovely lady present

wherever she was sweet or kind to me

appearing so that often
I’m awakened

not by the sound of any bell
but sighs
.

Her hair free in the breeze I see, and she

turning to me: so lovely she comes back

into my heart for which she has the key;

but
too much joy
, which is an obstacle

stopping my tongue
, does not possess the courage

to clearly show
what she is like inside
.

I never saw
the sunrise look so lovely

not even with the sky all free of mist

nor after rain the
rainbow
in the sky

changing
so many colors
through the air

as, on the day I took my loving burden,

her face in shades of
flaming color changed
,

that face with which (and
I am spare with words
)

no other mortal thing
can be compared
.

I saw Love
move those lovely eyes of hers

so graciously that every other sight

from that time on began to seem quite dark.

Sennuccio, I saw him
with his bow drawn
,

and after that my life was never safe;

and yet it goes on yearning for his sight.

Ponmi ove ’l sole occide i fiori et l’erba,

o dove vince lui il ghiaccio et la neve;

ponmi ov’ è il carro suo temprato et leve,

et ov’ è chi cel rende o chi cel serba;

ponmi in umil fortuna od in superba,

al dolce aere sereno, al fosco et greve;

ponmi a la notte, al dì lungo ed al breve,

a la matura etate od a l’acerba;

ponmi in cielo od in terra od in abisso,

in alto poggio, in valle ima et palustre,

libero spirto od a’ suoi membri affisso;

ponmi con fama oscura o con illustre:

sarò qual fui, vivrò com’ io son visso,

continuando il mio sospir trilustre.

O d’ardente vertute ornata et calda

alma gentil cui tante carte vergo,

o sol già d’onestate intero albergo,

torre in alto valor fondata et salda,

o fiamma, o rose sparse in dolce falda

di viva neve in ch’ io mi specchio et tergo,

o piacer onde l’ali al bel viso ergo

che luce sovra quanti il sol ne scalda:

del vostro nome se mie rime intese

fossin sì lunghe, avrei pien Tyle et Battro,

la Tana e ’l Nilo, Atlante Olimpo et Calpe.

Poi che portar nol posso in tutte et quattro

parti del mondo, udrallo il bel paese

ch’Appennin parte e ’l mar circonda et l’Alpe.

Put me where sun can kill
the grass and flowers,

or where the ice and snow
can conquer him
;

put me there where his cart is
mild and light
,

where those give him to us
or take him back;

put me in lowly fortune or in high,

in air that’s sweet and clear, or dark and heavy;

put me in night or day that’s long or short,

in ripe old age or in the time of youth;

put me in Heaven or earth or
in abyss
,

high hill or in a valley
low and swampy
,

a spirit free or one fixed to its body;

put me in darkness or the light of fame:

I’ll be
what I have been, live as I’ve lived

continuing to
sigh trilustrally
.

O noble soul
with
glowing virtue warm

and fair for whom
I line so many pages
,

O the
sole place
where
chastity lives
whole,

a tower founded on deep worth, secure,

O flame, O roses
spread on a sweet drift

of
living snow
where
looking makes me pure
,

O
joy raising my wings
to your fair face,

which shines far brighter than the sun can warm;

with your own name, were
my poems understood

so far away, I’d fill the Thule and Bactria,

the Don, the Nile, Atlas, Olympus, Calpe.

But since it cannot reach the world’s four parts,

let
that fair land
the Apennines divide

and sea and Alps surround, hear it ring out.

Quando ’l voler, che con due sproni ardenti

et con un duro fren mi mena et regge,

trapassa ad or ad or l’usata legge

per far in parte i miei spirti contenti,

trova chi le paure et gli ardimenti

del cor profondo ne la fronte legge;

et vede Amor, che sue imprese corregge,

folgorar ne’ turbati occhi pungenti.

Onde come colui che ’l colpo teme

di Giove irato, si ritragge indietro,

ché gran temenza gran desire affrena;

ma freddo foco et paventosa speme

de l’alma che traluce come un vetro

talor sua dolce vista rasserena.

Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige et Tebro,

Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo et Gange,

Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garona, e ’l mar che frange,

Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Sena, Albia, Era, Ebro;

non edra, abete, pin, faggio o genebro

poria ’l foco allentar che ’l cor tristo ange

quant’ un bel rio ch’ ad ogni or meco piange

co l’arboscel che ’n rime orno et celebro.

Questo un soccorso trovo fra gli assalti

d’Amore, ove conven ch’ armato viva

la vita che trapassa a sì gran salti.

Così cresca il bel lauro in fresca riva,

et chi ’l piantò pensier leggiadri et alti

ne la dolce ombra al suon de l’acque scriva!

When
my desire
, with its
two burning spurs

and a
hard bit
that lead and rule my way,

sometimes
transgresses
the accepted rule

and
gives a bit of joy
to all my spirits,

he finds
the one
who reads upon my brow

the fears and boldness deep inside my heart,

and he sees
Love
,
whose actions he corrects
,

that flashes
in her angry, piercing eyes.

And so, like anyone who fears the blow

of
angry Jove
, he backs up and retreats

because great fear can
hold back great desire
.

But cooling fires and the hope that trembles

within my soul,
transparent as is glass
,

will sometime
bring back peace
to her sweet face.

Not Tessin, Tiber
, Varo, Arno, Adige, Po,

Euphrates, Ganges, Tigris, Nile, Erno, Indo,

Don, Danube, Alpheus, Garonne, the
sea-breaker

Rhône, Rhine, Iber, Seine, Elbe, Loire, Ebro;

not
ivy, fir, pine
, beech, or juniper

could
slow
the fire with which my sad heart rages

like the
fair stream
that always weeps with me

and the
slim tree
my verse adorns and lauds;

I find they are a help amid attacks

by Love
where I in armor
must live out

my life which moves along in
leaps and bounds
.

Let this fair laurel grow on the fresh bank,

and
he who planted it
, in its sweet shade,

to watery sounds, write high
and happy
thoughts.

Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura

l’angelica figura e ’l dolce riso,

et l’aria del bel viso

e de gli occhi leggiadri meno oscura.

Che fanno meco ornai questi sospiri

che nascean di dolore

et mostravan di fore

la mia angosciosa et desperata vita?

S’ aven che ’l volto in quella parte giri

per acquetare il core,

parmi vedere Amore

mantener mia ragione et darmi aita.

Né però trovo ancor guerra finita

né tranquillo ogni stato del cor mio,

ché più m’arde ’l desio

quanto più la speranza m’assicura.

“Che fai, alma? Che pensi? Avrem mai pace?

Avrem mai tregua? od avrem guerra eterna?”—

“Che fia di noi non so, ma in quel ch’ io scerna

a’ suoi begli occhi il mal nostro non piace.”—

“Che pro, se con quelli occhi ella ne face

di state un ghiaccio, un foco quando inverna?”—

“Ella non, ma colui che gli governa.”—

“Questo ch’ è a noi, s’ ella sel vede et tace?”—

“Talor tace la lingua e ’l cor si lagna

ad alta voce, e ’n vista asciutta et lieta

piange dove mirando altri nol vede.”—

“Per tutto ciò la mente non s’acqueta,

rompendo il duol che ’n lei s’accoglie et stagna,

ch’ a gran speranza uom misero non crede.”

From time to time
that form which is angelic,

that smile so sweet, are not so hard on me;

the tone
of her fair face

and of her charming eyes
appears less dark
to me.

Then why
are all these sighs
still
with me now

that used to come from sorrow

and were the way of showing

how desperate and anguished was my life?

If I should turn
my face in her direction

to give my heart some rest,

it seems that I see Love

taking my side and offering his help.

But I find that this
war is still not over

and that the state of my heart finds no peace:

the more desire burns

the more my hope fills me with confidence.

“What now, soul? You think that peace will ever come?

A truce, perhaps? Or
everlasting war
?”

“I do not know our future, but I see

our suffering
is not pleasing to her eyes.”

“What good is that, if with those eyes she turns us

to ice in summer, in wintertime to fire?”

“
Not she, but he
who has control of them.”

“What’s that to us, if she
sees and is silent
?”

“Sometimes she’s silent but her heart weeps loud,

and even if her face is dry and happy,

she weeps where no one else who looks can see.”

“Nevertheless my mind is not at rest,

and all the grief that
stagnates there
breaks out;

a poor man has no faith in
hopes so grand
.”

Non d’atra et tempestosa onda marina

fuggio in porto giamai stanco nocchiero,

com’ io dal fosco et torbido pensero

fuggo ove ’l gran desio mi sprona e ’nchina;

né mortal vista mai luce divina

vinse, come la mia quel raggio altero

del bel dolce soave bianco et nero

in che in suoi strali Amor dora et affina.

Cieco non già, ma faretrato il veggo,

nudo se non quanto vergogna il vela,

garzon con ali, non pinto ma vivo.

Indi mi mostra quel ch’ a molti cela,

ch’ a parte a parte entro a’ begli occhi leggo

quant’ io parlo d’Amore et quant’ io scrivo.

Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d’orsa

che ’n vista umana o ’n forma d’angel vene,

in riso e ’n pianto, fra paura et spene

mi rota sì ch’ ogni mio stato inforsa.

Se ’n breve non m’accoglie o non mi smorsa,

ma pur come suol far tra due mi tene,

per quel ch’ io sento al cor gir fra le vene

dolce veneno, Amor, mia vita è corsa.

Non po più la vertù fragile et stanca

tante varietati omai soffrire,

che ’n un punto arde, agghiaccia, arrossa, e ’mbianca.

Fuggendo spera i suoi dolor finire

come colei che d’ora in ora manca,

ché ben po nulla chi non po morire.

No weary helmsman ever rushed for port

away from black and stormy waves at sea

as I flee from my
dark and turbid trouble

to where my surging passion urges me;

and never has
divine light
conquered more

a mortal’s sight than mine did
that high ray

of the sweet, lovely, gentle
black and white

in which Love
dips in gold
his sharpened arrows.

He is not blind
;
I see him
with a quiver,

naked, except where shame commands a veil,

a boy with wings, not painted
but alive
.

From there he shows me what he hides from many:

in her fair eyes I read there
word by word

all that I say of love and all I write.

This
kind, wild beast
, this tiger’s heart or bear’s

that comes in human shape or form of angel,

in tears, in laughter, amid fear and hope,

spins me around
and makes
my state uncertain
.

If she won’t take me soon or let me free

or keeps on holding me
between the two
,

from
that sweet poison
running through my heart

and veins I feel, Love, that my life is over.

My frail
and weary strength now is unable

to suffer all this change, for all at once

it burns and freezes, blushes and turns pale.

It
hopes by fleeing
to end all its grief

like one who feels he’s failing gradually,

for he is
powerless
who cannot die.