Petrarch (59 page)

se non per lei che fu ’l suo lume e ’l mio;

poi che ’n terra morendo al Ciel rinacque

quello spirto ond’ io vissi, a seguitarlo

licito fusse è ’l mi’ sommo desio.

Ma da dolermi ò ben sempre, perch’ io

fui mal accorto a proveder mio stato

ch’ Amor mostrommi sotto quel bel ciglio

per darmi altro consiglio:

ché tal morì già tristo et sconsolato

cui poco inanzi era ’l morir beato.

Nelli occhi ov’ abitar solea ’l mio core

(fin che mia dura sorte invidia n’ebbe,

che di sì ricco albergo il pose in bando),

di sua man propria avea descritto Amore

con lettre di pietà quel ch’ averrebbe

tosto del mio sì lungo ir desiando.

Bello et dolce morire era allor quando,

morend’ io, non moria mia vita inseme,

anzi vivea di me l’ottima parte;

or mie speranze sparte

à Morte, et poca terra il mio ben preme,

et vivo, et mai nol penso ch’ i’ non treme.

Se stato fusse il mio poco intelletto

meco al bisogno, et non altra vaghezza

l’avesse disviando altrove vòlto,

ne la fronte a Madonna avrei ben letto:

“Al fin se’ giunto d’ogni tua dolcezza

et al principio del tuo amaro molto.”

that cherished food
devoured by the one

who leaves the world naked and my heart sad,

the sweet bitter, and lovely pleasure
pain

becomes for me from day to day; and so life’s journey,

though brief, I fear and hope not to complete.

A mist or dust
caught in the wind, I flee

to be no more a pilgrim in this life,

and let it happen if it be my fate.

I never liked this mortal life of ours

(Love knows with whom I often spoke of it)

except for her who was its light and mine;

that spirit I once lived in having died

on earth to be reborn in Heaven, my wish

above all is to follow her—
if only
!

But I shall always have to grieve, for I

was
poorly skilled
in seeing my condition,

which Love showed me
beneath that lovely brow

to give me other counsel:

many have died in sorrow, unconsoled,

who might have died in joy
by dying sooner
.

Within the eyes in which my heart once lived

(until
cruel fate began to envy
it

and banished it from
that rich dwelling place
),

in his own hand Love had
inscribed in letters

made out of pity telling what would come

quite soon from my long journey of desire.

How nice and sweet if I had died then; when

dying
my life would not have died
with me—

rather, the best of me would have lived on;

and now
my hopes are scattered

by Death;
a bit of earth
hides all my wealth,

and I live on—to think of it I tremble.

If all the little intellect I have,

when I had needed, and
another yearning

had not turned it elsewhere and made it stray,

clear on my lady’s brow
I might have read:

“Now you have reached where all your sweetness ends

and the beginning of great bitterness.”

Questo intendendo, dolcemente sciolto

in sua presenzia del mortal mio velo

et di questa noiosa et grave carne,

potea inanzi lei andarne

a veder preparar sua sedia in Cielo:

or l’andrò dietro omai con altro pelo.

Canzon, s’ uom trovi in suo amor viver queto,

dí: “Muor mentre se’ lieto,

ché morte al tempo è non duol ma refugio,

et chi ben po morir non cerchi indugio.”

Mia benigna fortuna e ’l viver lieto,

i chiari giorni et le tranquille notti

e i soavi sospiri, e ’l dolce stile

che solea resonare in versi e ’n rime,

vòlti subitamente in doglia e ’n pianto

odiar vita mi fanno et bramar morte.

Crudele, acerba, inesorabil Morte,

cagion mi dài di mai non esser lieto

ma di menar tutta mia vita in pianto

e i giorni oscuri et le dogliose notti;

i mei gravi sospir non vanno in rime,

e ’l mio duro martir vince ogni stile.

Ove è condutto il mio amoroso stile?

a parlar d’ira, a ragionar di morte.

U’ sono i versi, u’ son giunte le rime

che gentil cor udia pensoso et lieto?

Ov’ è ’l favoleggiar d’amor le notti?

Or non pari’ io né penso altro che pianto.

Già mi fu col desir sì dolce il pianto

che condia di dolcezza ogni agro stile

et vegghiar mi facea tutte le notti;

or m’è ’l pianger amaro più che morte,

If I had understood this, sweetly freed

(and
in her presence
) of my mortal veil,

of this heavy, burdensome flesh of mine,

I could have gone before her

to watch Heaven
prepare
for her a throne—

but now I’ll follow her, with my hair changed.

Song, should you find a man who loves in peace,

say: “
Die while you are happy
,

for timely death is not grief but a refuge:

let he who can
die well
delay no longer
.”

My kindly fortune
and my life, so happy,

the clear-lit days and all the tranquil nights,

the gentle-flowing sighs and the sweet style

that would resound in all my verse and rhymes—

all of a sudden
turned to grief
and tears—

make me
hate life
and make me yearn for death.

Cruel, bitter,
inexorable Death
,

you give me reason
never to be happy,

but rather to lead all my life in tears,

with days of darkness and sorrowful nights;

my heavy sighs cannot turn into rhymes,

and my
harsh torment
goes beyond all style.

To what end
has it come, my loving style,

talking of anger
, or discussing death?

Where have they gone, those verses and those rhymes

a gentle heart would hear
thoughtful and happy?

Where is that
talk of love through all those nights
?

I talk now
and I think nothing but tears.

Once my desire was so sweet with tears,

its
sweetness seasoned
every bitter style

and made me stay awake through all those nights;

now weeping is more bitter than is death

non sperando mai ’l guardo onesto et lieto,

alto sogetto a le mie basse rime.

Chiaro segno Amor pose a le mie rime

dentro a belli occhi, et or l’a posto in pianto

con dolor rimembrando il tempo lieto,

ond’ io vo col penser cangiando stile

et ripregando te, pallida Morte,

che mi sottragghi a sì penose notti.

Fuggito è ’l sonno a le mie crude notti,

e ’l sono usato a le mie roche rime

che non sanno trattar altro che morte;

così è ’l mio cantar converso in pianto.

Non à ’l regno d’Amor si vario stile,

ch’ è tanto or tristo quanto mai fu lieto.

Nesun visse giamai più di me lieto,

nesun vive più tristo et giorni et notti,

et doppiando ’l dolor, doppia lo stile

che trae del cor si lacrimose rime.

Vissi di speme, or vivo pur di pianto,

né contra Morte spero altro che morte.

Morte m’à morto, et sola po far Morte

ch’ i’ torni a riveder quel viso lieto

che piacer mi facea i sospiri e ’l pianto,

l’aura dolce et la pioggia a le mie notti

quando i penseri eletti tessea in rime,

Amor alzando il mio debile stile.

Or avess’ io un sì pietoso stile

che Laura mia potesse torre a Morte

come Euridice Orfeo sua senza rime,

ch’ i’ viverei ancor più che mai lieto!

S’ esser non po, qualcuna d’este notti

chiuda omai queste due fonti di pianto.

Amor, i’ ò molti et molt’anni pianto

mio grave danno in doloroso stile,

né da te spero mai men fere notti;

et però mi son mosso a pregar Morte

che mi tolla di qui per farme lieto

ove è colei che i’ canto et piango in rime.

without hope of that glance, honest and happy,

the lofty subject of my lowly rhymes.

A clear goal Love once set for all my rhymes

in those fair eyes, now he
set it in tears

recalling in my sorrow times so happy,

so I go
changing with my thought my style

and
begging and rebegging
you, pale Death,

to rescue me from such tormenting nights.

All
sleep has run away
from my cruel nights

as has the usual sound from
my hoarse rhymes

that cannot deal with anything but death,

and so my singing now has turned to tears.

Love’s kingdom does not know such varied style,

one now as sad as ever it was happy.

There never lived a man
who was more happy
,

and no one lives more sadly days and nights

and
doubling up his grief
doubles his style

that pulls from out his heart such tearful rhymes.

I lived on hope
, I live now just on tears

hoping against Death only for my death.

Death gave me death
, and it is only Death

can make me see again the face so happy

that filled with pleasure all my sighs and tears,

the
breath
so sweet, the rain of all my nights

when noble thoughts were woven into rhymes

by Love as he
raised up
my fragile style.

Would that I had so sorrowful a style

that I could get my Laura back from Death

as
Orpheus did Eurydice
without rhymes
,

then I would be,
more than I’ve been
, so happy!

If this can never be, then let some nights

come soon and
close my two fountains
of tears.

Love, many, many years I have shed tears

for my
grave loss
and in a grieving style

and there’s no hope you’ll make less cruel my nights,

and so now I have turned to
begging Death

to
take me from this place
, and
make me happy
,

to her for whom I sing and weep in rhymes.

Se si alto pon gir mie stanche rime

ch’ agiungan lei ch’ è fuor d’ira et di pianto

et fa ’l Ciel or di sue bellezze lieto,

ben riconoscerà ’l mutato stile

che già forse le piacque anzi che Morte

chiaro a lei giorno, a me fesse atre notti.

O voi che sospirate a miglior notti,

ch’ ascoltate d’Amore o dite in rime,

pregate non mi sia più sorda Morte,

porto de le miserie et fin del pianto;

muti una volta quel suo antiquo stile

ch’ ogni uom attrista et me po far sì lieto.

Far mi po lieto in una o ’n poche notti,

e ’n aspro stile e ’n angosciose rime

prego che ’l pianto mio finisca Morte.

Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso

che ’l mio caro tesoro in terra asconde,

ivi chiamate chi dal Ciel risponde

ben che ’l mortal sia in loco oscuro et basso.

Ditele ch’ i’ son già di viver lasso,

del navigar per queste orribili onde,

ma ricogliendo le sue sparte fronde

dietro le vo pur così passo passo,

sol di lei ragionando viva et morta

(anzi pur viva, et or fatta immortale),

a ciò che ’l mondo la conosca et ame.

Piacciale al mio passar esser accorta,

ch’ è presso omai; siami a l’incontro, et quale

ella è nel Cielo, a sé mi tiri et chiame.

If they can reach so high, my weary rhymes

and join the one
beyond sorrow and tears

who with her beauty now makes Heaven happy,

she’ll surely recognize my
change of style

which once
pleased her, perhaps
, until came Death

to
make bright day for her
, for me dark nights.

O
all of you who sigh
for better nights,

who listen about Love or write in rhymes,

pray Death to be no longer deaf to me,

the port of misery, the end of tears;

for once let her give up her ancient style

that brings all sorrow but can make me happy.

She can
make me happy in a few nights
,

and in harsh style and in my anguished rhymes

I pray my tears come to an end with Death.

Go now
, my grieving verse,
to the hard stone

that hides my precious treasure in the earth;

and
there call her, who will respond
from Heaven

although her mortal part
be darkly buried
,

and tell her I am weary now of living,

of sailing through
the horrors of this sea
,

but that, by gathering up
her scattered leaves
,

I follow her this way,
step after step
,

speaking of her alone,
alive and dead

(rather, alive, and
now immortalized
),

so that
the world may know
and love her more.

Let her watch
for the day I pass away

(it is not far from now), let her meet me,

call me,
draw me
to what she is in Heaven.

S’ onesto amor po meritar mercede

et se pietà ancor po quant’ ella suole,

mercede avrò, ché più chiara che ’l sole

a Madonna et al mondo è la mia fede.

Già di me paventosa, or sa, nol crede,