Petrarch (43 page)
Authors: Mark Musa
All day I weep
; and then at nighttime when
all miserable mortals stop to rest
I find myself in tears, my pains have doubled:
and so all of my time I spend in weeping.
With their sad moisture
I wear out my eyes
,
with grief my heart; among all living things
I rank the worst
, because
those loving arrows
forever keep me
exiled from my peace
.
Alas, for
from one sun
until another,
from one night to the next, I have already
run through most of this
death which is called life
!
More for her fault
I grieve than for my ills,
for living pity
, the help I placed my faith in,
can see me burn in fire and give no aid.
I wanted once by means of
just complaint
and in such fervid verse to raise my voice
and set pity aflame and make it felt
in the hard heart that’s frozen
in midsummer
;
and break the cruel cloud
cold and veiling it
with all
the aura of my flaming words
,
or make her hateful
to all others, she
who hides those lovely eyes that make me melt.
Not hate
for her, pity for me I seek;
I don’t want hate, and pity I can’t have;
such was my star, such my crude destiny.
But I shall sing
of all her
godlike beauty
so that when I am shaken from this flesh
the world will know how sweet a death was mine.
Tra quantunque leggiadre donne et belle
giunga costei ch’ al mondo non à pare,
col suo bel viso suol dell’altre fare
quel che fa ’l dì de le minori stelle.
Amor par ch’ a l’orecchie mi favelle,
dicendo: “Quanto questa in terra appare
fia ’l viver bello; et poi ’l vedrem turbare,
perir vertuti e ’l mio regno con elle.
“Come Natura al ciel la luna e ’l sole,
a l’aere i venti, a la terra erbe et fronde,
a l’uomo et l’intelletto et le parole,
“et al mar ritollesse i pesci et l’onde:
tanto et più fien le cose oscure et sole
se Morte li occhi suoi chiude et asconde.”
Il cantar novo e ’l pianger delli augelli
in sul dì fanno retentir le valli,
e ’l mormorar de’ liquidi cristalli
giù per lucidi freschi rivi et snelli.
Quella ch’ à neve il volto, oro i capelli,
nel cui amor non fur mai inganni né falli,
destami al suon delli amorosi balli,
pettinando al suo vecchio i bianchi velli.
Così mi sveglio a salutar l’aurora
e ’l sol ch’ è seco, et più l’altro ond’ io fui
ne’ primi anni abagliato et son ancora.
I’ gli ò veduti alcun giorno ambedui
levarsi inseme, e ’n un punto e ’n un’ora
quel far le stelle et questo sparir lui.
However many
lovely, charming
ladies
she finds around her, she who has no equal,
with her fair face
she makes of all
the others
what
daybreak makes
of all the lesser stars.
It seems that Love is
whispering in my ear
,
saying: “As long as she is on this earth,
life will be good; and then we’ll see it
darkened
and
virtues die
and with them goes my realm.
If Nature took
from the heavens sun and moon,
the wind from air, the grass and leaves from earth,
the intellect and words away from man,
and from the sea removed its fish and waves:
so much and more
will things be dark, deserted,
were Death to come to
close and hide her eyes
.”
The
new song sung
and
weeping of the birds
at break of day is
echoed in the valleys
as is the murmuring of liquid crystal
that flows down through the clear,
fresh, rapid streams
.
The one
whose face is snow, whose hair is gold,
whose love
contained no failings or deceit
,
awakens me to sound of
loving dance
,
combing her lover’s ancient
fleece of white
.
And so I wake to greet the dawn and sun
with her, and more
that other sun
which I
was dazzled by in youth and still am now.
Some days I’ve seen the two of them together
rising, and at the same time, instantly,
him make the stars, as she makes him, vanish.
Onde tolse Amor l’oro et di qual vena
per far due treccie bionde? e ’n quali spine
colse le rose, e ’n qual piaggia le brine
tenere e fresche, et die’ lor polso et lena?
onde le perle in ch’ ei frange et affrena
dolci parole oneste et pellegrine?
onde tante bellezze et si divine
di quella fronte più che ’l ciel serena?
Da quali angeli mosse et di qual spera
quel celeste cantar che mi disface
si che n’avanza omai da disfar poco?
Di qual sol nacque l’alma luce altera
di que’ belli occhi ond’ io ò guerra et pace,
che mi cuocono il cor in ghiaccio e ’n foco?
Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno
mi riconduce disarmato al campo,
là ’ve sempre son vinto? et s’ io ne scampo,
meraviglia n’avrò; s’ i’ moro, il danno.
Danno non già, ma pro, sì dolci stanno
nel mio cor le faville e ’l chiaro lampo
che l’abbaglia et lo strugge e ’n ch’ io m’avampo,
et son già ardendo nel vigesimo anno.
Sento i messi di Morte ove apparire
veggio i belli occhi e folgorar da lunge;
poi s’ aven ch’ appressando a me li gire,
Amor con tal dolcezza m’unge et punge
ch’ i’ nol so ripensar, non che ridire,
ché né ’ngegno né lingua al vero agiunge.
Where did Love get
the gold and from what mine
to make the two blond tresses?
What thorns
yielded
the roses, and what meadow
gave its frost
tender and fresh, to grant them life
and breath
?
From where the
pearls
with which he breaks and tempers
sweet words so chaste, so extraordinary?
From where so many beauties so divine
upon that face
more tranquil
than the heavens?
And from what angels, from what sphere, did he
send that celestial singing that consumes me,
leaving little of me left to be consumed?
And from what sun was born the
high, kind light
of those fair eyes
declaring war and peace
that
burn my heart
in fire and in ice
?
What fate of mine, what force or
what deceit
is leading me,
unarmed
, back to the field
where I am
always conquered
? Should I escape
I’ll be surprised, and if I die, ashamed.
Not really shame,
but gain
; inside my heart
so sweetly are the sparks and the bright lightning
that stun, tormenting it—in it I blaze
and still am burning for the twentieth year.
I feel Death’s messengers when I see coming
those lovely eyes that sparkle from afar;
if she turns them toward me as she approaches,
Love with such sweetness
wounds and cures my wounds,
I can’t recapture it, no less explain,
for neither wit nor tongue can touch the truth.
“Liete et pensose, accompagnate et sole,
Donne che ragionando ite per via:
ove è la vita, ove la morte mia?
perché non è con voi com’ ella sòle?”
“Liete siam per memoria di quel sole,
dogliose per sua dolce compagnia
la qual ne toglie invidia et gelosia
che d’altrui ben quasi suo mal si dole.”
“Chi pon freno a li amanti o dà lor legge?”
“Nessun a l’alma; al corpo, ira et asprezza;
questo or in lei, talor si prova in noi.
“Ma spesso ne la fronte il cor si legge,
sì vedemmo oscurar l’alta bellezza
et tutti rugiadosi li occhi suoi.”
Quando ’l sol bagna in mar l’aurato carro
et l’aere nostro et la mia mente imbruna,
col cielo et co le stelle et co la luna
un’angosciosa et dura notte innarro:
poi, lasso, a tal che non m’ascolta narro
tutte le mie fatiche ad una ad una,
et col mondo et con mia cieca fortuna,
con Amor, con Madonna et meco garro.
Il sonno è ’n bando et del riposo è nulla,
ma sospiri et lamenti infin a l’alba
e lagrime che l’alma a li occhi invia.
Vien poi l’aurora et l’aura fosca inalba,
me no; ma ’l sol che ’l cor m’arde et trastulla,
quel po solo adolcir la doglia mia.
“
Happy yet sad
, in company yet alone,
Ladies who
walk along in conversation
,
where is the
life
, where is that death of mine?
Why is she not with you as usual?”
“We’re happy to be thinking of that sun,
and sad that jealousy and envy takes
her lovely company from us
and grieves
at another’s good as if at its own harm.”
“
Who can
hold lovers back or give them rules?”
“The soul, no one; the body,
wrath and rigor
;
you see it now in her,
sometimes in us
.
“Often the heart can be read through the face,
and thus we saw her lofty beauty darkened,
those eyes of hers all
watery with dew
.”
When in the sea
the sun bathes
his gold chariot
and darkens all our air and
my mind too
,
with all the heavens and the stars and moon
I settle for a hard and anguished night;
and then, alas,
to one
who does not listen
I tell all of my
trouble
s one by one,
and with the world and with my own blind fortune,
with Love, my Lady and myself
I quarrel
.
All sleep is banished,
rest is nullified
,
only laments and sighs until the dawn
and
tears sent by the soul
up to the eyes.
Dawn comes and brightens the
dark air
,
not me
;
that sun which burns and gives my heart delight,
that one alone can make my
torment sweet
.
S’ una fede amorosa, un cor non finto,
un languir dolce, un desiar cortese,
s’ oneste voglie in gentil foco accese,
un lungo error in cieco laberinto,
se ne la fronte ogni penser depinto,
od in voci interrotte a pena intese
or da paura or da vergogna offese,
s’ un pallor di viola et d’amor tinto,
s’ aver altrui più caro che se stesso,
se sospirare et lagrimar mai sempre
pascendosi di duol d’ira et d’affanno,
s’ arder da lunge et agghiacciar da presso,
son le cagion ch’ amando i’ mi distempre:
vostro, Donna, ’l peccato et mio fia ’l danno.
Dodici donne onestamente lasse,
anzi dodici stelle, e ’n mezzo un sole
vidi in una barchetta allegre et sole
qual non so s’ altra mai onde solcasse;
simil non credo che Jasòn portasse
al vello onde oggi ogni uom vestir si vole,
né ’l pastor di ch’ ancor Troia si dole,
de’ qua’ duo tal romor al mondo fasse.
Poi le vidi in un carro triunfale,
Laurëa mia con suoi santi atti schifi
sedersi in parte et cantar dolcemente:
non cose umane o vision mortale.
Felice Autumedòn, felice Tifi
che conduceste sì leggiadra gente!
If loving faithfulness
,
unfeigning heart
,
sweet languishing
and
courteous desire
,
chaste wishes kindled in a noble fire,
long wandering in a
blind labyrinth
,
if all my thoughts are
painted on my brow
or barely understood in
broken
words
or cut short out of fear or from my shame,
if mine is
violets pallor, tint of love
,
if loving
someone
else
more than oneself
,
if to be always sighing and in tears,
feeding on grief, on angers and on trouble,
if burning from afar, freezing close by,
are causes
that undo me
in my love,
the blame is yours
, my lady, mine the loss.
Twelve ladies
I saw virtuously at ease,
twelve stars they were, and in their midst a sun,
all happy and alone in a small bark
the likes of which I think has never sailed.
It was not like the one that
carried Jason
to the fleece
all men these days would like to wear,
or like the shepherd’s
for whom Troy still grieves,
about which two the world makes so much noise.
Then I saw them in a triumphal cart,
my Laurel
with her
holy, modest manner
,
was
sitting to one side
and singing sweetly—
a sight not human, not a mortal vision.
