Petrarch (36 page)

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Authors: Mark Musa

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as pleases him (and
kicking back is useless
),

O loving souls who love in graciousness,

if there are any, all you shades and dust,

ah,
stay awhile
and see what pain is mine.

162

Flowers
joyful and glad
, fortunate grass

on which my lady used to
walk in thought
,

shore that would listen to her words of sweetness

conserving traces
of her lovely foot,

trees
straight and slender
, branches young and green,

violets pale and
delicately lovely
,

forests of shade on which the sunlight strikes

and makes you tall and proud with her own rays,

O gentle countryside, O river pure

that bathes her lovely face and her bright eyes

and takes its quality
from her live light
:

how much
I envy you
her fair, dear presence!

There’s not a stone among you now that is

not learning how to burn with flame like mine.

163

Amor, che vedi ogni pensero aperto

e i duri passi onde tu sol mi scorgi,

nel fondo del mio cor gli occhi tuoi porgi

a te palese, a tutt’ altri coverto.

Sai quel che per seguirte ò già sofferto,

et tu pur via di poggio in poggio sorgi

di giorno in giorno, et di me non t’accorgi,

che son sì stanco e ’l sentier m’è troppo erto.

Ben veggio io di lontano il dolce lume

ove per aspre vie mi sproni et giri,

ma non ò come tu da volar piume.

Assai contenti lasci i miei desiri

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

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,

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