Authors: Mark Musa
Petrarch (52 page)
“Deh, perché inanzi ’l tempo ti consume?”
mi dice con pietate. “A che pur versi
degli occhi tristi un doloroso fiume?
“Di me non pianger tu, ch’ e’ miei di fersi,
morendo, eterni; et ne l’interno lume,
quando mostrai de chiuder, gli occhi apersi.”
In her loveliest age, while in
full bloom
,
when Love is wont to reach its peak of power,
leaving her earthly vesture to the earth,
my living aura took her leave from me,
and
living, lovely, naked
rose to Heaven:
from there she rules, from there she
drains my strength
.
Ah, why is not my mortal part divested
by my last day, the first of the next life;
then, as my thoughts go following after her
so, light, unburdened, joyful would my soul
go after her and I be out of trouble?
All the delay is truly to my loss,
and makes my corpse
much heavier to carry
.
How sweet a death
three years ago
today!
If sound of
birds complaining
or green leaves
that rustle gently in a summer breeze,
or the
faint murmuring
of
transparent waves
,
I hear from a shore fresh with flowers blooming,
while sitting there with love in thought and writing,
the one whom Heaven showed us and earth hides,
I
see and hear and feel
, for
still alive
,
so far away she answers to my sighs.
“Why do you
waste away before your time
?”
she asks me pityingly. “Why do you still
pour forth from your sad eyes a stream of sorrow?
“Don’t weep for me, for my day has become
through death eternal;
into internal light
my eyes were opened when they seemed to close.”
Mai non fui in parte ove si chiar vedessi
quel che veder vorrei poi ch’ io nol vidi,
né dove in tanta libertà mi stessi,
né ’mpiessi il ciel de sì amorosi stridi;
né giamai vidi valle aver sì spessi
luoghi da sospirar riposti et fidi,
né credo già ch’ Amore in Cipro avessi
o in altra riva sì soavi nidi.
L’acque parlan d’amore, et l’òra e i rami,
et gli augelletti e i pesci e i fiori et l’erba,
tutti inseme pregando ch’ i’ sempre ami.
Ma tu, ben nata, che dal Ciel mi chiami,
per la memoria di tua morte acerba
preghi ch’ i’ sprezzi ’l mondo e i suoi dolci ami.
Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto
fuggendo altrui et, s’ esser po, me stesso
vo con gli occhi bagnando l’erba e ’l petto,
rompendo co’ sospir l’aere da presso!
Quante fiate sol, pien di sospetto,
per luoghi ombrosi et foschi mi son messo,
cercando col penser l’alto diletto
che Morte à tolto, ond’ io la chiamo spesso!
Or in forma di ninfa o d’altra diva
che del più chiaro fondo di Sorga esca
et pongasi a sedere in su la riva,
or l’ò veduto su per l’erba fresca
calcare i fior com’ una donna viva,
mostrando in vista che di me le ’ncresca.
I’ve never
found a place where I could see
more clearly what I’d like to see but cannot,
nor where I found myself with
so much freedom
or filled the heavens with such
cries of love
;
nor have I ever seen a valley thicker
with
hidden, trusty places
made for sighing,
nor do I think
Love
ever had in Cyprus
or on another shore
a sweeter nest
.
The waters speak of love,
the breeze
and branches,
the
little bird
s, the fish, the grass and flowers
all begging me to always be in love.
But you, fortunate one, who calls
from
Heaven
with memory of your untimely death
beg me
to scorn the world with its sweet hooks.
How many times I go to
my sweet nest
,
fleeing others, and if I can, myself,
my eyes bathing my breast, wetting the grass,
and breaking with my sighs
the air around me
!
How many times alone, all full of fear
have I gone into
gloomy, shadowy places
searching in thought for the
exalted joy
that Death, on whom I often call, has snatched!
Sometimes in form of
nymph or other goddess
arising from the
clearest depths of Sorgue
she comes to
take her place
upon the shore,
sometimes I’ve seen her there upon fresh grass,
walking on flowers
like a living lady
,
her face revealing
sorrow for my state
.
Alma felice che sovente torni
a consolar le mie notti dolenti
con gli occhi tuoi, che morte non à spenti
ma sovra ’l mortal modo fatti adorni:
quanto gradisco ch’ e’ miei tristi giorni
a rallegrar de tua vista consenti!
così comincio a ritrovar presenti
le tue bellezze a’ suoi usati soggiorni.
Là ’ve cantando andai di te molt’anni
or, come vedi, vo di te piangendo—
di te piangendo no, ma de’ miei danni.
Sol un riposo trovo in molti affanni,
che quando torni te conosco e ’ntendo
a l’andar, a la voce, al volto, a’ panni.
Discolorato ài, Morte, il più bel volto
che mai si vide, e i più begli occhi spenti;
spirto più acceso di vertuti ardenti
del più leggiadro et più bel nodo ài sciolto.
In un momento ogni mio ben m’ài tolto,
post’ ài silenzio a’ più soavi accenti
che mai s’udiro, et me pien di lamenti:
quant’ io veggio m’è noia et quant’ io ascolto.
Ben torna a consolar tanto dolore
Madonna, ove pietà la riconduce,
né trovo in questa vita altro soccorso;
et se come ella parla et come luce
ridir potessi, accenderei d’amore
non dirò d’uom, un cor di tigre o d’orso.
Soul full of bliss
who often comes to me
to soothe my nights of sorrow with your eyes
which Death has not extinguished but has made
more beautiful than any living thing,
how
I thank you for granting
my sad days
some happiness by showing me your image!
So now I have begun to rediscover
your many beauties where they’ve always been.
There where
I sang of you for many years
now, as you see, I sing for you in tears—
no, not in tears for you
but for my loss.
Only one joy I find in all my cares,
that when you come
I truly
know it’s you
from how you walk
, your voice, your face, your clothes.
You have
discolored
, Death, the loveliest face
we ever saw and quenched the loveliest eyes;
the brightest spirit with its
ardent virtues
,
from the most charming, loveliest knot you’ve loosed.
You’ve robbed me of my wealth in just one instant,
you’ve silenced the most
gentle sounds of speech
we ever heard and left me with laments:
all that I see, all that I hear is pain.
She does, indeed, return
to soothe such sorrow,
Madonna, and it’s pity leads her back—
in this life I can find
no other help
;
and how she
speaks
and how she shines,
if I
could tell you,
I could set aflame
with love
not only hearts of men but
tigers, bears
!
Sì breve è ’l tempo e ’l penser sì veloce
che mi rendon Madonna cosi morta,
ch’ al gran dolor la medicina è corta:
pur mentr’ io veggio lei, nulla mi noce.
Amor, che m’à legato et tienmi in croce,
trema quando la vede in su la porta
de l’alma, ove m’ancide ancor sì scorta,
si dolce in vista, et sì soave in voce.
Come donna in suo albergo altera vene,
scacciando de l’oscuro et grave core
co la fronte serena i pensier tristi;
l’alma, che tanta luce non sostene,
sospira et dice: “O benedette l’ore
del di che questa via con li occhi apristi!”
Né mai pietosa madre al caro figlio
né donna accesa al suo sposo diletto
die’ con tanti sospir, con tal sospetto
in dubbio stato sì fedel consiglio,
come a me quella che ’l mio grave esiglio
mirando dal suo eterno alto ricetto
spesso a me torna co l’usato affetto,
et di doppia pietate ornata il ciglio,
or di madre, or d’amante. Or teme or arde
d’onesto foco, et nel parlar mi mostra
quel che ’n questo viaggio fugga o segua,
contando i casi de la vita nostra,
pregando ch’ a levar l’alma non tarde.
Et sol quant’ ella parla ò pace, o tregua.
So short the time, so rapid is the thought
which give me back Madonna
so long dead
—
the
medicine falls short
of such great pain,
yet while I see her nothing bothers me.
Love, who bound me and
keeps me on this cross
,
trembles
to see her there upon the
threshold
of the soul, ready to slay me once more,
so sweet
the vision, so soft the voice.
As mistress she comes to
her home
with pride
expelling from a dark and heavy heart
with clearness of her brow all thoughts of sorrow;
the soul that
cannot bear so great a light
sighs
and then
says: “Oh,
blessèd be the hours
that make the day
your eyes opened the way
.”
Never did
tender mother her dear son
or ardent lady her belovèd spouse
give, sighing so, with
such consideration
,
such faithful counsel at a
doubtful time
as she to me, who watching my
grave exile
from her superior,
eternal home
often
returns to me
with the same care
and with her brow adorned with double pity,
now mother and now lover. Now fearing, burning
with a pure fire, she shows me with words
what in this journey I should flee or follow,
explaining things
that happen in our life,
begging me not to lift my soul too late.
And only while she speaks I’ve peace,
a truce
.
Se quell’aura soave de’ sospiri
ch’ i’ odo di colei che qui fu mia
donna (or è in Cielo et ancor par qui sia
et viva et senta et vada et ami et spiri)
ritrar potessi, or che caldi desiri
movrei parlando, si gelosa et pia
torna ov’ io son, temendo non fra via
mi stanchi o ’ndietro o da man manca giri.
Ir dritto alto m’insegna, et io, che ’ntendo
le sue caste lusinghe e i giusti preghi
col dolce mormorar pietoso et basso,
secondo lei conven mi regga et pieghi,
per la dolcezza che del suo dir prendo,
ch’ avria vertù di far piangere un sasso.
Sennuccio mio, benché doglioso et solo
m’abbi lasciato, i’ pur mi riconforto,
perché del corpo ov’ eri preso et morto
alteramente se’ levato a volo.
Or vedi inseme l’ un et l’ altro polo,
le stelle vaghe et lor viaggio torto,
et vedi il veder nostro quanto è corto;
onde col tuo gioir tempro ’l mio duolo.
Ma ben ti prego che ’n la terza spera
Guitton saluti, et
messer Cino
, et
Dante
,
Franceschin nostro et tutta quella schiera.
A la mia donna puoi ben dire in quante
lagrime io vivo et son fatt’ una fera,
membrando il suo bel viso et l’opre sante.
If only those sweet-flowing
aura’s sighs
that I hear come from her who here
was mine
,
my lady—now in Heaven, though still here
she lives
and feels and walks and loves and breathes—
could I portray them
, oh what
warm desires
my words would set aflame!
so anxious
, kind,
she comes back to me fearing that I may
tire on my way,
turn back, go the wrong way
.
She teaches me to go straight up, and I,
knowing her
pure allurements
, her just prayers
sweetly murmured
beseechingly and low
,
must
hold myself to her
,
bend to her rule
,
out of the sweetness I take from
her words
that have the force to
make a stone shed tears
.
O my Sennuccio
, though you’ve left me grieving
and all alone, I still take comfort knowing
that from the body
which enclosed you dead
to lofty heights you raised your wings in flight.
Now you can see
both poles at the same time,
the stars that wander and their winding path,
and you can see how short our seeing is,
therefore I temper my grief with your joy.
