Petrarch (46 page)

né, per duo fonti, sol una favilla

rallenta de l’incendio che m’infiamma,

anzi per la pietà cresce ’l desio.

I have begged Love and I beg him again

to beg your pardon for me, my sweet pain,

my bitter bliss, if I with my
complete

faithfulness deviate from the straight path.

I can’t deny, I don’t deny, my Lady,

that reason who restrains every good soul

may be at times won over by desire

who leads me there where
I am forced to follow
.

You, with that heart
the heavens have lit up

with intellect so bright, with such high virtue

—as much as ever poured from a good star—

should say with pity and no trace of scorn:

“
What choice
does this man have? My face consumes him.

Why is he greedy? Why am I so lovely?”

That lofty lord
from whom it does not serve

to hide or flee or to protect yourself,

had set my mind aflame in lovely bliss

with just an arrow burning in its love;

the first blow in itself was sharp and mortal,

but he in order to
advance his case
,

took up another arrow
made of mercy

and
from both sides
assails and stabs
my heart.

The one wound burns and pours out
flame and fire
,

the other,
tears that misery distills

from out my eyes because of
your sad state
;

in spite of these
two fountains
, not a spark

is lost within the blaze of all my burning;

rather, through pity
my desire grows
.

“Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago:

ivi lasciammo ier lei ch’ alcun tempo ebbe

qualche cura di noi et le n’ encrebbe,

or vorria trar de li occhi nostri un lago.

“Torna tu in là, ch’ io d’esser sol m’appago;

tenta se forse ancor tempo sarebbe

da scemar nostro duol che ’nfin qui crebbe,

o dei mio mal participe et presago.”

Or tu ch’ ài posto te stesso in oblio

et parli al cor pur come e’ fusse or teco,

miser et pien di pensier vani et sciocchi!

ch’ al dipartir dal tuo sommo desio

tu te n’andasti, e’ si rimase seco

et si nascose dentro a’ suoi belli occhi.

Fresco ombroso fiorito et verde colle

ov’ or pensando et or cantando siede,

et fa qui de’ celesti spiriti fede

quella ch’ a tutto ’l mondo fama toile:

il mio cor che per lei lasciar mi volle—

et fe’ gran senno, et più se mai non riede—

va or contando ove da quel bel piede

segnata è l’erba et da quest’occhi è molle.

Seco si stringe et dice a ciascun passo:

“Deh, fusse or qui quel miser pur un poco,

ch’ è già di pianger et di viver lasso!”

Ella sel ride, et non è pari il gioco:

tu paradiso, i’ senza cor un sasso,

o sacro, aventuroso et dolce loco!

“
Look at that hill
, my tired heart that yearns:

there yesterday we left her, she who once

felt care and had some sympathy for us

and now would turn our eyes
into a lake
.

“Return there, I’ll be
glad to be alone
;

see
if it is not time
for us to lessen

our anguish which has grown until this day,

O
prescient
sharer of my suffering.”

Now you who have forgotten your own self

talk to your heart
as if you still possessed it,

poor wretch, so full of vain and silly thoughts!

For by departing from your
highest wish

you went away and your heart stayed with her

and
hid inside
those lovely eyes of hers.

Green hill
, a cool and shady flowering place

where she sits now
in thought and now in song,

as she bears witness here of Heaven’s blest,

she who
outdoes all fame
throughout the world:

my heart that wanted to leave me for her,

and
showed good sense
(and more by not returning)

goes counting now
on grass where her fair foot

left signs and I
the wetness of my eyes
.

He moves toward her and says with every step,

“Ah, could that wretch be here for just awhile,

he’s
so worn out
from weeping and from life!”

She smiles
at that. But this game is not fair:

I’m stone
without my heart,
you’re paradise
,

O sacred and most fortunate, sweet place.

Il mal mi preme et mi spaventa il peggio,

al qual veggio si larga et piana via

ch’ i’ son intrato in simil frenesia,

et con duro penser teco vaneggio;

né so se guerra o pace a Dio mi cheggio,

che ’l danno è grave et la vergogna è ria.

Ma perché più languir? di noi pur fia

quel ch’ ordinato è già nel sommo seggio.

Ben ch’ i’ non sia di quel grand’ onor degno

che tu mi fai, ché te n’inganna Amore

che spesso occhio ben san fa veder torto,

pur d’alzar l’alma a quel celeste regno

è il mio consiglio et di spronare il core,

perché ’l camin è lungo e ’l tempo è corto.

Due rose fresche et colte in paradiso

l’altr’ier, nascendo il di primo di maggio,

bel dono et d’un amante antiquo et saggio

tra duo minori egualmente diviso,

con si dolce parlar et con un riso

da far innamorare un uom selvaggio,

di sfavillante et amoroso raggio

et l’un’ et l’altro fe’ cangiare il viso.

“Non vede un simil par d’amanti il sole,”

dicea ridendo et sospirando inseme,

et stringendo ambedue volgeasi a torno.

Cosi partia le rose et le parole,

onde ’l cor lasso ancor s’allegra et teme:

o felice eloquenzia! o lieto giorno!

I’m crushed by ills and
terrified by worse

to which I see
so broad and smooth a way

that I have entered
your same frenzied road
,

and
with hard thoughts
I
ramble
on with you,

not knowing to ask God
for peace or war
,

so
heavy is the loss
and
cruel the shame
.

Why go on brooding? What is ours already

has been ordained by Heaven’s highest throne.

Unworthy as I am
of that great honor

you give to me—you are deceived by Love

who often makes a
healthy eye see wrong
—

I still advise you lift your soul above

to the celestial realm and spur your heart

because the road is long and time is short.

Two roses
fresh and
picked in paradise

the other day
, born on the
first of May
,

a sweet gift
from a
lover old and wise
,

shared equally
between two younger ones,

accompanied by words and smile so sweet

(they could have made a savage fall in love),

with
stream of light
that
sparkles lovingly

had brought about a change on both their faces.

“Lovers like these the sun has never seen,”

he said smiling
and sighing
both at once;

embracing both of them,
he then turned round
.

And so he shared the roses and the words;

my
weary heart still fears
in its own bliss.

Oh happy eloquence
! Oh joyful day!

L’aura che ’l verde lauro et l’aureo crine

soavemente sospirando move

fa con sue viste leggiadrette et nove

l’anime da’ lor corpi pellegrine.

Candida rosa nata in dure spine,

quando fia chi sua pari al mondo trove?

Gloria di nostra etate! O vivo Giove,

manda, prego, il mio in prima che ’l suo fine!

si ch’ io non veggia il gran publico danno

e ’l mondo remaner senza ’l suo sole

né li occhi miei, che luce altra non ànno;

né l’alma, che pensar d’altro non vole,

né l’orecchie, ch’ udir altro non sanno,

senza l’oneste sue dolci parole.

Parrà forse ad alcun che ’n lodar quella

ch’ i’ adoro in terra, errante sia ’l mio stile

faccendo lei sovr’ ogni altra gentile,

santa, saggia, leggiadra, onesta et bella.

A me par il contrario, et temo ch’ ella

non abbia a schifo il mio dir troppo umile,

degna d’assai più alto et più sottile;

et chi nol crede venga egli a vedella,

si dirà ben: “Quello ove questi aspira

è cosa da stancare Atene, Arpino,

Mantova et Smirna, et l’una et l’altra lira.

“Lingua mortale al suo stato divino

giunger non pote; Amor la spinge et tira

non per elezion ma per destino.”

The aura
sighing gently as it moves

the verdant laurel and her golden hair,

turns
, with
its aspects new and delicate
,

souls into pilgrims wandering from their bodies.

Whiteness of rose
born high among hard thorns,

when will the world find one like her again?

O glory of our age!
O living Jove
,

I beg you take my life before hers ends!

Spare me the sight of
public loss
so great

and of the world’s existence
without sun
;

spare my own eyes that have no other light,

and my soul
, too, that thinks of nothing else,

my ears, unable to hear other sounds

except the
sweet perfection
of her words.

Someone perhaps may think, in praise of her

whom I adore on earth,
my style is wrong

in making her beyond all others gracious,

saintly and wise, charming and chaste and lovely.

I think the opposite
, and fear that she

disdains the humble words
I use for her;

she merits
higher, finer ones
than mine—

who does not trust me,
come and gaze on her
.

Who does will say: “What this man hopes to do

would tire out
all Arpinum and Athens
,

Mantua, Smyrna,
one lyre and the other
.

“
A mortal tongue
can never touch the state

of her divinity; Love
draws and drives

his tongue, and not by choice
but destiny
.”

Chi vuol veder quantunque po Natura

e ’l Ciel tra noi, venga a mirar costei

ch’ è sola un sol, non pur a li occhi mei

ma al mondo cieco che vertù non cura;

et venga tosto, perché Morte fura

prima i migliori et lascia star i rei:

questa aspettata al regno delli dei

cosa bella mortal passa et non dura.

Vedrà, s’ arriva a tempo, ogni vertute,

ogni bellezza, ogni real costume

giunti in un corpo con mirabil tempre;

allor dira che mie rime son mute,

l’ingegno offeso dal soverchio lume.

Ma se più tarda, avrà da pianger sempre.

Qual paura ò quando mi torna a mente

quel giorno ch’ i’ lasciai grave et pensosa

Madonna e ’l mio cor seco! et non è cosa

che sì volentier pensi et sì sovente.

I’ la riveggio starsi umilemente

tra belle donne, a guisa d’una rosa

tra minor flor, né lieta né dogliosa,

come chi teme et altro mal non sente.

Deposta avea l’usata leggiadria,

le perle et le ghirlande et i panni allegri,

e ’l riso e ’l canto e 1 parlar dolce umano.

Così in dubbio lasciai la vita mia;

or tristi auguri, et sogni et penser negri

mi dànno assalto, et piaccia a Dio che ’nvano!

Who seeks to see the best Nature and Heaven

can do among us, come and gaze on her,

sole sun
, and not for my eyes only but

for
the blind world
which does not care for virtue;

come quickly now
, because Death steals away

the best ones first and leaves behind the worst:

this one, awaited in the
kingdom of the gods
,

this lovely, mortal thing will pass, not last.

He’ll see, if he arrives in time, all virtue,

all loveliness,
all regal-mannered ways

joined in one body
, tempered marvelously;

then he will say that all my
verse is dumb
,

my
talent overcome
by too much light.

But if he waits too long, he’ll
weep forever
.

What fear I feel when I recall to mind

the day I left
my lady
sad and pensive

and with her there my heart. Yet there is nothing

that I so wish to think about so often.

Again I see her humble presence there

among fair ladies,
like a rose
among

the lesser flowers,
neither gay nor sad
,

like one who fears
but feels no other ill.

She had discarded
all her elegance
,

her pearls
, her garlands and her cheerful dress,

her laughing
, singing, her sweet human words.