by Mark Musa
né mosse il vento mai sì verdi frondi
come a me si mostrar quel primo tempo,
tal che temendo de l’ardente lume
non volsi al mio refugio ombra di poggi,
ma de la pianta più gradita in cielo.
Un lauro mi difese allor dal cielo,
onde più volte, vago de’ bei rami,
da po’ son gito per selve et per poggi;
né giamai ritrovai tronco né frondi
141
As sometimes when the sun shines bright
a foolish butterfly, seeking the light
in its desire, flies into someone’s eyes
and kills itself and makes the other cry:
I, too, am always racing toward the fatal
light of her eyes that show me so much sweetness
it makes Love careless with the reins of reason,
and who discerns is vanquished by desire.
And I can see how much her eyes disdain me,
and I am certain I will die from it—
my strength cannot hold out against such pain;
but so mellifluously Love dazzles me
that I mourn for her wrong, not my own pain,
and my soul, blind, consents to its own death.
142
To the sweet shade of all those lovely leaves
I ran in flight from that merciless light
that down upon me burned from the third Heaven;
the snow by then was melting in the hills
from the loving aura that renews the season,
and in the meadows bloomed the grass and branches.
The world has never seen such graceful branches
nor ever has the wind moved greener leaves
as showed themselves to me in that first season,
so that while fearful of the burning light
I did not choose for refuge shade of hills
but rather of the tree most loved in Heaven.
A laurel then protected me from Heaven,
where many times in love with its fair branches
I’ve gone since then through woods, across the hills;
and never have I found a trunk or branches
tanto onorate dal superno lume
che non mutasser qualitate a tempo.
Però più fermo ogni or di tempo in tempo,
seguendo ove chiamar m’udia dal cielo
e scorto d’un soave et chiaro lume,
tornai sempre devoto ai primi rami
et quando a terra son sparte le frondi
et quando il sol fa verdeggiare i poggi.
Selve, sassi, campagne, fiumi, et poggi,
quanto è creato, vince et cangia il tempo;
ond’ io cheggio perdono a queste frondi
se rivolgendo poi molt’anni il cielo
fuggir disposi gl’invescati rami
tosto ch’ i’ ’ncominciai di veder lume.
Tanto mi piacque prima il dolce lume
ch’ i’ passai con diletto assai gran poggi
per poter appressar gli amati rami;
ora la vita breve e ’l loco e ’l tempo
mostranmi altro sentier di gire al cielo
et di far frutto, non pur fior et frondi.
Altr’amor, altre frondi, et altro lume,
altro salir al ciel per altri poggi
cerco (che n’è ben tempo), et altri rami.
that was so honored by supernal light
they did not change their worth with change of season.
So firmer all the more, season to season,
and following the call I heard from Heaven
and guided by a graceful and clear light,
devoted I return to the first branches
when here on earth are scattered all the leaves
and when the sun turns into green the hills.
The woods, the rocks, the fields, rivers and hills,
and all things made are won and changed by season;
and so I beg the pardon of these leaves
if after many years and turns of heaven
I decided to escape the sticky branches
as soon as I began to see the light.
At first I found so pleasing the sweet light
that happily I crossed the greatest hills
in order to be close to those loved branches;
and now short life as well as place and season
show me another path that leads to Heaven
and to bear fruit, not merely blooms and leaves.
Another love and other leaves and light,
another climb to Heaven by other hills
I seek (the season’s right) and other branches.
143
Quando io v’odo parlar sì dolcemente
com’ Amor proprio a’ suoi seguaci instilla,
l’acceso mio desir tutto sfavilla
tal ch’ enfiammar devria l’anime spente;
trovo la bella donna allor presente
ovunque mi fu mai dolce o tranquilla,
ne l’abito ch’ al suon non d’altra squilla
ma di sospir mi fa destar sovente.
Le chiome a l’aura sparse et lei conversa
indietro veggio, et così bella riede
nel cor come colei che tien la chiave;
ma ’l soverchio piacer, che s’atraversa
a la mia lingua, qual dentro ella siede
di mostrarla in palese ardir non àve.
144
Né cosi bello il sol giamai levarsi
quando ’l ciel fosse più de nebbia scarco,
né dopo pioggia vidi ’l celeste arco
per l’aere in color tanti variarsi,
in quanti fiammeggiando trasformarsi
nel dì ch’ io presi l’amoroso incarco
quel viso al quale (et son nel mio dir parco)
nulla cosa mortal pote aguagliarsi.
I’ vidi Amor che’ begli occhi volgea
soave sì ch’ ogni altra vista oscura
da indi in qua m’incominciò apparere,
Sennuccio, i’ ’l vidi et l’arco che tendea,
tal che mia vita poi non fu secura
et è sì vaga ancor del rivedere.
143
When I hear you speak words of so much sweetness
as Love himself inspires in his flock,
glowing desire in me turns to sparks
enough to set a dead soul all aflame;
and then I find the lovely lady present
wherever she was sweet or kind to me
appearing so that often I’m awakened
not by the sound of any bell but sighs.
Her hair free in the breeze I see, and she
turning to me: so lovely she comes back
into my heart for which she has the key;
but too much joy, which is an obstacle
stopping my tongue, does not possess the courage
to clearly show what she is like inside.
144
I never saw the sunrise look so lovely
not even with the sky all free of mist
nor after rain the rainbow in the sky
changing so many colors through the air
as, on the day I took my loving burden,
her face in shades of flaming color changed,
that face with which (and I am spare with words)
no other mortal thing can be compared.
I saw Love move those lovely eyes of hers
so graciously that every other sight
from that time on began to seem quite dark.
Sennuccio, I saw him with his bow drawn,
and after that my life was never safe;
and yet it goes on yearning for his sight.
145
Ponmi ove ’l sole occide i fiori et l’erba,
o dove vince lui il ghiaccio et la neve;
ponmi ov’ è il carro suo temprato et leve,
et ov’ è chi cel rende o chi cel serba;
ponm
i in umil fortuna od in superba,
al dolce aere sereno, al fosco et greve;
ponmi a la notte, al dì lungo ed al breve,
a la matura etate od a l’acerba;
ponmi in cielo od in terra od in abisso,
in alto poggio, in valle ima et palustre,
libero spirto od a’ suoi membri affisso;
ponmi con fama oscura o con illustre:
sarò qual fui, vivrò com’ io son visso,
continuando il mio sospir trilustre.
146
O d’ardente vertute ornata et calda
alma gentil cui tante carte vergo,
o sol già d’onestate intero albergo,
torre in alto valor fondata et salda,
o fiamma, o rose sparse in dolce falda
di viva neve in ch’ io mi specchio et tergo,
o piacer onde l’ali al bel viso ergo
che luce sovra quanti il sol ne scalda:
del vostro nome se mie rime intese
fossin sì lunghe, avrei pien Tyle et Battro,
la Tana e ’l Nilo, Atlante Olimpo et Calpe.
Poi che portar nol posso in tutte et quattro
parti del mondo, udrallo il bel paese
ch’Appennin parte e ’l mar circonda et l’Alpe.
145
Put me where sun can kill the grass and flowers,
or where the ice and snow can conquer him;
put me there where his cart is mild and light,
where those give him to us or take him back;
put me in lowly fortune or in high,
in air that’s sweet and clear, or dark and heavy;
put me in night or day that’s long or short,
in ripe old age or in the time of youth;
put me in Heaven or earth or in abyss,
high hill or in a valley low and swampy,
a spirit free or one fixed to its body;
put me in darkness or the light of fame:
I’ll be what I have been, live as I’ve lived
continuing to sigh trilustrally.
146
O noble soul with glowing virtue warm
and fair for whom I line so many pages,
O the sole place where chastity lives whole,
a tower founded on deep worth, secure,
O flame, O roses spread on a sweet drift
of living snow where looking makes me pure,
O joy raising my wings to your fair face,
which shines far brighter than the sun can warm;
with your own name, were my poems understood
so far away, I’d fill the Thule and Bactria,
the Don, the Nile, Atlas, Olympus, Calpe.
But since it cannot reach the world’s four parts,
let that fair land the Apennines divide
and sea and Alps surround, hear it ring out.
147
Quando ’l voler, che con due sproni ardenti
et con un duro fren mi mena et regge,
trapassa ad or ad or l’usata legge
per far in parte i miei spirti contenti,
trova chi le paure et gli ardimenti
del cor profondo ne la fronte legge;
et vede Amor, che sue imprese corregge,
folgorar ne’ turbati occhi pungenti.
Onde come colui che ’l colpo teme
di Giove irato, si ritragge indietro,
ché gran temenza gran desire affrena;
ma freddo foco et paventosa speme
de l’alma che traluce come un vetro
talor sua dolce vista rasserena.
148
Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige et Tebro,
Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo et Gange,
Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garona, e ’l mar che frange,
Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Sena, Albia, Era, Ebro;
non edra, abete, pin, faggio o genebro
poria ’l foco allentar che ’l cor tristo ange
quant’ un bel rio ch’ ad ogni or meco piange
co l’arboscel che ’n rime orno et celebro.
Questo un soccorso trovo fra gli assalti
d’Amore, ove conven ch’ armato viva
la vita che trapassa a sì gran salti.
Così cresca il bel lauro in fresca riva,
et chi ’l piantò pensier leggiadri et alti
ne la dolce ombra al suon de l’acque scriva!
147
When my desire, with its two burning spurs
and a hard bit that lead and rule my way,
sometimes transgresses the accepted rule
and gives a bit of joy to all my spirits,
he finds the one who reads upon my brow
the fears and boldness deep inside my heart,
and he sees Love, whose actions he corrects,
that flashes in her angry, piercing eyes.
And so, like anyone who fears the blow
of angry Jove, he backs up and retreats
because great fear can hold back great desire.
But cooling fires and the hope that trembles
within my soul, transparent as is glass,
will sometime bring back peace to her sweet face.
148
Not Tessin, Tiber, Varo, Arno, Adige, Po,
Euphrates, Ganges, Tigris, Nile, Erno, Indo,
Don, Danube, Alpheus, Garonne, the sea-breaker
Rhône, Rhine, Iber, Seine, Elbe, Loire, Ebro;
not ivy, fir, pine, beech, or juniper
could slow the fire with which my sad heart rages
like the fair stream that always weeps with me
and the slim tree my verse adorns and lauds;
I find they are a help amid attacks
by Love where I in armor must live out
my life which moves along in leaps and bounds.
Let this fair laurel grow on the fresh bank,
and he who planted it, in its sweet shade,
to watery sounds, write high and happy thoughts.
149
Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura
l’angelica figura e ’l dolce riso,
et l’aria del bel viso
e de gli occhi leggiadri meno oscura.
Che fanno meco ornai questi sospiri
che nascean di dolore
et mostravan di fore
la mia angosciosa et desperata vita?
S’ aven che ’l volto in quella parte giri
per acquetare il core,
parmi vedere Amore
mantener mia ragione et darmi aita.
Né però trovo ancor guerra finita
né tranquillo ogni stato del cor mio,
ché più m’arde ’l desio
quanto più la speranza m’assicura.
150
“Che fai, alma? Che pensi? Avrem mai pace?
Avrem mai tregua? od avrem guerra eterna?”—
“Che fia di noi non so, ma in quel ch’ io scerna
a’ suoi begli occhi il mal nostro non piace.”—
“Che pro, se con quelli occhi ella ne face
di state un ghiaccio, un foco quando inverna?”—
“Ella non, ma colui che gli governa.”—
“Questo ch’ è a noi, s’ ella sel vede et tace?”—
“Talor tace la lingua e ’l cor si lagna
ad alta voce, e ’n vista asciutta et lieta
piange dove mirando altri nol vede.”—
“Per tutto ciò la mente non s’acqueta,
rompendo il duol che ’n lei s’accoglie et stagna,
ch’ a gran speranza uom misero non crede.”
149
From time to time that form which is angelic,
that smile so sweet, are not so hard on me;
the tone of her fair face
and of her charming eyes appears less dark to me.
Then why are all these sighs still with me now
that used to come from sorrow
and were the way of showing
how desperate and anguished was my life?
If I should turn my face in her direction
to give my heart some rest,
it seems that I see Love
taking my side and offering his help.
But I find that this war is still not over
and that the state of my heart finds no peace:
the more desire burns
the more my hope fills me with confidence.
150
“What now, soul? You think that peace will ever come?
A truce, perhaps? Or everlasting war?”
“I do not know our future, but I see
our suffering is not pleasing to her eyes.”
“What good is that, if with those eyes she turns us
to ice in summer, in wintertime to fire?”
“Not she, but he who has control of them.”
“What’s that to us, if she sees and is silent?”
“Sometimes she’s silent but her heart weeps loud,
and even if her face is dry and happy,
she weeps where no one else who looks can see.”
“Nevertheless my mind is not at rest,
and all the grief that stagnates there breaks out;
a poor man has no faith in hopes so grand.”
151
Non d’atra et tempestosa onda marina
fuggio in porto giamai stanco nocchiero,
com’ io dal fosco et torbido pensero
fuggo ove ’l gran desio mi sprona e ’nchina;
né mortal vista mai luce divina
vinse, come la mia quel raggio altero
del bel dolce soave bianco et nero
in che in suoi strali Amor dora et affina.
Cieco non già, ma faretrato il veggo,
nudo se non quanto vergogna il vela,
garzon con ali, non pinto ma vivo.
Indi mi mostra quel ch’ a molti cela,
ch’ a parte a parte entro a’ begli occhi leggo
quant’ io parlo d’Amore et quant’ io scrivo.
152
Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d’orsa
che ’n vista umana o ’n forma d’angel vene,
in riso e ’n pianto, fra paura et spene
mi rota sì ch’ ogni mio stato inforsa.