Petrarch
Page 8
prese in sua scorta una possente Donna
ver cui poco giamai mi valse o vale
ingegno o forza o dimandar perdono;
23
In the sweet season of my early years
which saw the birth and the still tender green
of the fierce passion which grew up against me,
since singing can unripen bitter pain,
I’ll sing of how I lived in liberty
while Love had not been welcomed in my home;
and then I’ll tell how this offended him
too deeply, and what happened to me then
that I became a lesson for the many,
even though my harsh undoing
has been recorded elsewhere, exhausting
a thousand pens by now, and every valley
is echoing with the sound of my grave sighs,
attesting to a painful way of life.
If memory is no help to me now,
as once it was, let pain be my excuse
and that thought which alone inflicts such anguish,
it makes me turn my back on any other
and forces me to lose all sense of self—
it owns what’s in me, I merely the shell.
I tell you from the day that Love first thrust
his blow at me many a year had passed
and I was giving up my youthful looks;
around my heart the frozen thoughts had formed
a kind of adamantine toughness there,
which never let my hard decision out;
no tear until this time had bathed my breast
nor broke my sleep, and what was not in me
appeared miraculously so in others.
Oh, what am I? What was I?
The end lauds life, the night what day has brought;
because that savage one of whom I speak,
aware that until now his arrow’s blow
had not pierced me beyond the clothes I wore,
took as his patroness a mighty lady
against whom wit or force or begging pardon
did serve me just as little then as now;
ei duo mi trasformaro in quel ch’ i’ sono,
facendomi d’uom vivo un lauro verde
che per fredda stagion foglia non perde.
Qual mi fec’ io quando primier m’accorsi
de la trasfigurata mia persona,
e i capei vidi far di quella fronde
di che sperato avea già lor corona,
e i piedi in ch’ io mi stetti et mossi et corsi,
com’ ogni membro a l’anima risponde,
diventar due radici sovra l’onde
non di Peneo ma d’un più altero fiume,
e ’n duo rami mutarsi ambe le braccia!
Né meno ancor m’agghiaccia
l’esser coverto poi di bianche piume
allor che folminato et morto giacque
il mio sperar che tropp’ alto montava;
che perch’ io non sapea dove né quando
me ’l ritrovasse, solo, lagrimando,
là Ve tolto mi fu, di et notte andava
ricercando dallato e dentro a l’acque;
et giamai poi la mia lingua non tacque
mentre poteo del suo cader maligno,
ond’ io presi col suon color d’un cigno.
Così lungo l’amate rive andai,
che volendo parlar, cantava sempre,
mercé chiamando con estrania voce;
né mai in sì dolci o in sì soavi tempre
risonar seppi gli amorosi guai
che ’l cor s’umiliasse aspro et feroce.
Qual fu a sentir? ché ’l ricordar mi coce.
Ma molto più di quel ch’ è per inanzi
de la dolce et acerba mia nemica
è bisogno ch’ io dica,
ben che sia tal ch’ ogni parlare avanzi.
Questa che col mirar gli animi fura
m’aperse il petto el’ cor prese con mano,
dicendo a me: “Di ciò non far parola.”
Poi la rividi in altro abito sola,
both of them changed me into what I am:
from living man they turned me to green laurel
that does not lose its leaves in the cold season.
The way I felt when I became aware
of the transfiguration of my body
and saw my hair turning into those leaves
I once had hoped to make into my crown,
and both the feet I stood on, moved and ran
(as every limb responds to the soul’s power)
changing into two roots above the waves
not of Peneus but a prouder river,
and both my arms transformed into two branches!
Nor do I feel less fear
all covered in white feathers later on
when, struck by lightning and by death, my hope,
presuming to ascend too high, had fallen;
for since I did not know just when or where
I would recover it, alone, in tears,
I would go searching night and day that place
where I had lost it, near and in the waters;
and never from then on was my tongue silent
while I could speak about that evil fall,
and with the swan’s song I took on its color.
And so I went along the shores I loved,
and wanting to express myself, I sang
with a strange voice, constantly begging mercy;
but I could never make my amorous cries
resound in tones so sweet or soft enough
to bring her harsh, cruel heart to condescension.
What I felt then, if thinking back, still burns!
But much more than what I have told about
that sweet yet bitter enemy of mine
I feel I must reveal,
although she is beyond what words can say.
This one, who with a glance can steal a heart,
opened my breast and took my heart in hand,
saying to me: “Say not a word about this.”
Then I saw her alone in other garb
tal ch’ i’ non la conobbi, o senso umano!
anzi le dissi ’l ver pien di paura;
ed ella ne l’usata sua figura
tosto tornando fecemi, oimè lasso!
d’un quasi vivo et sbigottito sasso.
Ella parlava sì turbata in vista
che tremar mi fea dentro a quella petra,
udendo: “ I’ non son forse chi tu credi.”
E dicea meco: “Se costei mi spetra
nulla vita mi fia noiosa o trista;
a farmi lagrimar, signor mio, riedi.”
Come non so, pur io mossi indi i piedi,
non altrui incolpando che me stesso,
mezzo tutto quel dì tra vivo et morto.
Ma perché ’l tempo è corto
la penna al buon voler non po gir presso,
onde più cose ne la mente scritte
vo trapassando, et sol d’alcune parlo
che meraviglia fanno a chi l’ascolta.
Morte mi s’era intorno al cor avolta
né tacendo potea di sua man trarlo
o dar soccorso a le vertuti afflitte;
le vive voci m’erano interditte,
ond’ io gridai con carta et con incostro:
“Non son mio, no; s’ io moro il danno è vostro.”
Ben mi credea dinanzi agli occhi suoi
d’indegno far così di mercé degno,
et questa spene m’avea fatto ardito;
ma talora umiltà spegne disdegno
talor l’enfiamma, et ciò sepp’ io da poi,
lunga stagion di tenebre vestito;
ch’ a quei preghi il mio lume era sparito,
ed io non ritrovando intorno intorno
ombra di lei né pur de’ suoi piedi orma,
come uom che tra via dorma,
gittaimi stanco sovra l’erba
un giorno.
Ivi accusando il fugitivo raggio
a le lagrime triste allargai ’l freno
and did not know her, oh, who understands!
And full of fear I told her what the truth was,
and she resuming her accustomed form
quite quickly turned me into (oh, my grief)
a hardly living, baffled piece of stone.
She spoke with so much anger on her face,
it made me tremble in that stone to hear
“Perhaps I am not what you think I am.”
I told myself: “If she were to unrock me,
no life could be as sad or hard as this;
come back and make me weep again, my lord.”
I know not how, but I got out of there,
blaming no one but my self all that day
I walked away half living and half dead.
But since my time is short,
my pen cannot keep up with my good will,
so, many things recorded in my mind
I overlook and tell only of those
that stun the mind of anyone who listens.
Death had now wrapped itself around my heart,
and silence could not take it from her hands,
or give assistance to my hurting powers.
To use my spoken voice had been denied me
and so I shouted out with pen and paper;
“I’m not mine, no! If I die, it’s your fault.”
I thought by doing this that I, unworthy,
would in her eyes be worthy of her mercy,
and in such hope I found boldness to try;
but sometimes meekness will put out disdain,
sometimes inflame it—this I found out later,
when for a long time I was wrapped in darkness;
for with my prayers my light had disappeared,
and I, who found nowhere, nowhere the slightest
trace of herself, not even of her feet,
just like the tired traveler,
collapsed weary upon the grass one day.
And there, accusing her fugitive ray,
to desperate tears of mine I gave free rein
et lasciaile cader come a lor parve;
né giamai neve sotto al sol disparve
com’ io senti’ me tutto venir meno
et farmi una fontana a piè d’un faggio;
gran tempo umido tenni quel viaggio.
Chi udì mai d’uom vero nascer fonte?
e parlo cose manifeste et conte.
L’aima ch’ è sol da Dio fatta gentile—
che già d’altrui non po venir tal grazia—
simile al suo fattor stato ritene;
però di perdonar mai non è sazia
a chi col core et col sembiante umile
dopo quantunque offese a mercé vene.
Et se contra suo stile ella sostene
d’esser molto pregata, in lui si specchia,
et fal perché ’l peccar più si pavente;
ché non ben si ripente
de l’un mal chi de l’altro s’apparecchia.
Poi che Madonna da pietà commossa
degnò mirarme et ricognovve et vide
gir di pari la pena col peccato,
benigna mi redusse al primo stato.
Ma nulla à ’l mondo in ch’ uom saggio si fide;
ch’ ancor poi ripregando i nervi et l’ossa
mi volse in dura selce, et così scossa
voce rimasi de l’antiche some,
chiamando Morte et lei sola per nome.
Spirto doglioso errante mi rimembra
per spelunche deserte et pellegrine
piansi molt’ anni il mio sfrenato ardire,
et ancor poi trovai di quel mal fine
et ritornai ne le terrene membra,
credo per più dolore ivi sentire.
I’ segui’ tanto avanti il mio desire
ch’ un dì, cacciando sì com’ io solea,
mi mossi, e quella fera bella et cruda
in una fonte ignuda
si stava, quando ’l sol più forte ardea.
and let them fall whenever they decided.
Snow never disappeard beneath the sun,
as I felt myself melt entirely
and turn to fountain where the beech tree grows.
For a long time I traveled the wet road.
Who ever heard of man turned into fountain?
And yet I speak of clear and well-known things.
The soul that God alone created noble—
for grace like this could come from no one else—
is similar to her own Creator’s state;
therefore, she never stops forgiving one
who with humility in heart and face,
though he offended countless times, begs mercy.
And if, unlike herself, she is insistent
on one’s insistent prayer, she mirrors Him
in order that the sinning be more feared;
for one about to sin
again does not repent well of his sin.
After my lady, who was moved by pity,
agreed to look at me, and knew and saw
that punishment was equal to the sin,
she graciously restored my old condition.
But wise men count on nothing in this world:
for when I begged again, my bones and nerves
she turned to hardest stone, and I was left
a voice shaken from its old, heavy self,
calling for Death and only her by name.
A mournful wandering spirit (I remember)
through unfamiliar and deserted caves,
I bewept for many years my unleashed boldness,
and still again from that ill I found freedom
and I assumed once more my living form
to suffer greater pain therein, I think.
And my desire I pursued so far
that one day, hunting as I often would,
I came upon that cruel and lovely beast
naked within a fountain
when the sun strikes the hottest time of day.
Io perché d’altra vista non m’appago
stetti a mirarla, ond’ ella ebbe vergogna
et per farne vendetta o per celarse
l’acqua nel viso co le man mi sparse.
Vero dirò; forse e’ parrà menzogna:
ch’ i’ senti’ trarmi de la propria imago
et in un cervo solitario et vago
di selva in selva ratto mi trasformo,
et ancor de’ miei can fuggo lo stormo.
Canzon, i’ non fu’ mai quel nuvol d’oro
che poi discese in preziosa pioggia
si che ’l foco di Giove in parte spense;
ma fui ben fiamma ch’ un bel guardo accense,
et fui l’uccel che più per l’aere poggia
alzando lei che ne’ miei detti onoro;
né per nova figura il primo alloro
seppi lassar, ché pur la sua dolce ombra
ogni men bel piacer del cor mi sgombra.
I, since no other sight can please me more,
stood gazing at her, but she felt ashamed
and to revenge herself or else to hide
she splashed some water up into my face.
I’ll tell the truth, though it may seem a lie!
I felt myself ripped from my very image
and quickly turned into a solitary,
wandering deer that moves from wood to wood,
and still I flee the rage of my own hounds.
Canzone, never was I that golden cloud
that once descended in a precious rain
so as to quench in part Jove’s burning flame;
but surely I was flame lit by Love’s glance,
I was the bird that rises highest through the air
raising the one whom in my words I honor;
and no strange shape could ever make me leave
the first la
urel, for still its lovely shade
clears every lesser pleasure from my heart.
24
Se l’onorata fronde che prescrive
l’ira del ciel quando ’l gran Giove tona
non m’avesse disdetta la corona
che suole ornar chi poetando scrive,
i’ era amico a queste vostre dive
le qua vilmente il secolo abandona;
ma quella ingiuria già lunge mi sprona
da l’inventrice de le prime olive,
ché non bolle la polver d’Etiopia
sotto ’l più ardente sol, com’ io sfavillo
perdendo tanto amata cosa propia.
Cercate dunque fonte più tranquillo,
ché ’l mio d’ogni liquor sostene inopia
salvo di quel che lagrimando stillo.
25
Amor piangeva et io con lui tal volta,
dal qual miei passi non fur mai lontani,
mirando per gli effetti acerbi et strani
l’anima vostra de’ suoi nodi sciolta;
or ch’ al dritto camin l’à Dio rivolta,
col cor levando al cielo ambe le mani
ringrazio lui che’ giusti preghi umani
benignamente sua mercede ascolta.
Et se tornando a l’amorosa vita
per farvi al bel desio volger le spalle
trovaste per la via fossati o poggi,
fu per mostrar quanto è spinoso calle
et quanto alpestra et dura la salita
onde al vero valor conven ch’ uom poggi.
24
If the illustrious branch that can control
the wrath of heaven when great Jove thunders down
had not refused to make for me the crown
adorning those composing poetry,
those goddesses of yours would be my friends,
the ones abandoned vilely by the world;
but that offense forces me far away
from the inventress of the olive tree,
for Ethiopia’s sands do not burn more
beneath the hottest sun than I am burning
from losing something dear that was my own.
Go then and look for a more peaceful fountain,
for mine suffers a dearth of any liquid
except for that which weeping I let run.
25
Love at times would weep, and I, with him
from whom I never kept too far a distance,
would weep to see the strong and strange effects
that have released your soul tied in his knots;
now that God has returned it to the right path
with heart raised to the heavens and both hands,
I give my thanks to Him who in His mercy