by Mark Musa
does Love bathe you with ivory hands of hers,
so cruel only to me, and so unjustly!
Not only from my hiding place and rest
I flee, but more from my own self and thoughts
that used to take me with them high in flight;
I seek the crowd for me hateful, unfriendly
(who ever thought I would?) as place of refuge.
I’m so afraid to find myself alone.
235
Alas, Love takes me where I would not go,
and I know well I go beyond my duty,
thus I am more annoying, more than ever,
to her who sits as monarch in my heart.
No wiser helmsman guards from rocks his ship
so laden with its precious merchandise
than I who always kept my fragile skiff
from all the blows that came from her hard pride.
But now the rain of tears and violent gales
of sighs that never end have driven it
into my sea of awful night and winter
to menace others, bearing nothing more
than its own grief and pain, vanquished by waves
and now bereft of its own sails and rudder.
236
Amor, io fallo et veggio il mio fallire,
ma fo sì com’ uom ch’ arde e ’l foco à ’n seno;
ché ’l duol pur cresce, et la ragion ven meno,
et è già quasi vinta dal martire.
Solea frenare il mio caldo desire
per non turbare il bel viso sereno;
non posso più, di man m’ài tolto il freno,
et l’alma desperando à preso ardire.
Però s’ oltra suo stile ella s’ aventa,
tu ’l fai, che sì l’accendi et si la sproni
ch’ ogni aspra via per sua salute tenta;
et più ’l fanno i celesti et rari doni
ch’ à in sé Madonna; or fa’ almen ch’ ella il senta
et le mie colpe a se stessa perdoni.
237
Non à tanti animali il mar fra l’onde,
né lassù sopra ’l cerchio de la luna
vide mai tante stelle alcuna notte,
né tanti augelli albergan per li boschi,
né tant’ erbe ebbe mai campo né piaggia
quant’ à ’l mio cor pensier ciascuna sera.
Di dì in dì spero ornai l’ultima sera
che scevri in me dal vivo terren l’onde
et mi lasci dormire in qualche piaggia;
ché tanti affanni uom mai sotto la luna
non sofferse quant’ io, sannolsi i boschi
che sol vo ricercando giorno et notte.
I’ non ebbi giamai tranquilla notte,
ma sospirando andai matino et sera,
poi eh’ Amor femmi un cittadin de’ boschi;
ben fia, prima ch’ i’ posi, il mar senz’ onde,
236
O Love, I err and I can see my error,
but I act like a man whose chest’s afire,
whose pain keeps growing and whose reason fails
from nearly being vanquished by his pain.
I used to fight the heat of my desire
in order not to darken her clear face;
I can no more; you took control from me,
and in despair my soul has grown more bold.
Then if against its style it ventures off,
the fault is yours—you burn and spur it so,
it tries the hardest ways to save itself—
and more the fault of those rare, heavenly gifts
which are my lady’s. At least make her see this
and then forgive herself my own transgressions.
237
There aren’t as many fish in the sea’s waves,
nor up beyond the circle of the moon
were seen as many stars by any night,
nor do as many birds dwell in the woods,
nor any field with as much grass, or shore,
as all the thoughts my heart has every evening.
Now day to day I hope for the last evening
to cut in me the living earth from waves
and let me go to sleep upon some shore;
as many trials no man beneath the moon
has suffered as I do—they know, those woods
that I, alone, go searching day and night.
I’ve never had tranquility of night,
instead I’ve always sighed morning and evening
since Love made me a dweller of the woods;
before I rest the sea will have no waves,
et la sua luce avrà ’l sol da la luna,
e i flor d’april morranno in ogni piaggia,
Consumendo mi vo di piaggia in piaggia
el di pensoso, poi piango la notte;
né stato ò mai se non quanto la luna.
Ratto come imbrunir veggio la sera
sospir del petto et de li occhi escono onde
da bagnar l’erbe et da crollare i boschi.
Le città son nemiche, amici i boschi
a miei pensier che per quest’alta piaggia
sfogando vo col mormorar de l’onde
per lo dolce silenzio de la notte,
tal ch’ io aspetto tutto ’l di la sera
che ’l sol si parta et dia luogo a la luna.
Deh, or foss’ io col vago de la luna
adormentato in qua’ che verdi boschi,
et questa ch’ anzi vespro a me fa sera
con essa et con Amor in quella piaggia
sola venisse a starsi ivi una notte,
e ’l di si stesse e ’l sol sempre ne l’onde!
Sovra dure onde al lume de la luna,
canzon nata di notte in mezzo i boschi,
ricca piaggia vedrai deman da sera.
the sun’s light will be furnished by the moon
and April’s flowers die on every shore.
Pining away I go from shore to shore,
pensive all day, and then I weep all night;
nor am I any stabler than the moon.
No sooner than I see the dark of evening,
sighs from my breast, and from my eyes, flow waves
to wet the grass and tremble through the woods.
Cities are foes, but friendly are the woods
to all my thoughts which on this lofty shore
I pour out with the murmuring of the waves
throughout the sweetest silence of the night:
so that I wait the whole day long for evening
when the sun leaves to make way for the moon.
Ah, were I with the lover of the moon
fallen asleep somewhere in a green woods,
and she, who before vespers gives me evening,
came with the moon and Love toward that shore
alone and were to stay there for one night,
with day and sun forever under waves!
Above harsh waves, under a shining moon,
canzone, born by night within the woods,
a rich shore you will see tomorrow evening.
238
Real natura, angelico intelletto,
chiara alma, pronta vista, occhio cerviero,
providenzia veloce, alto pensero
et veramente degno di quel petto!
Sendo di donne un bel numero eletto
per adornar il di festo et altero,
subito scorse il buon giudicio intero
fra tanti et sì bei volti il più perfetto.
L’altre, maggior di tempo o di fortuna,
trarsi in disparte comandò con mano
et caramente accolse a sé quell’una;
li occhi et la fronte con sembiante umano
basciolle sì che rallegrò ciascuna;
me empiè d’invidia l’atto dolce et strano.
239
Là ver l’aurora, che si dolce l’aura
al tempo novo suol movere i fiori
et li auge
lletti incominciar lor versi,
sì dolcemente i pensier dentro a l’alma
mover mi sento a chi li à tutti in forza
che ritornar convenmi a le mie note.
Temprar potess’ io in sì soavi note
i miei sospiri ch’ addolcissen Laura,
facendo a lei ragion ch’ a me fa forza!
Ma pria fia ’l verno la stagion de’ fiori
ch’ amor fiorisca in quella nobil alma
che non curò giamai rime né versi.
Quante lagrime, lasso, et quanti versi
ò già sparti al mio tempo, e ’n quante note
ò riprovato umiliar quell’alma!
238
A regal nature, angel’s intellect,
an unflawed soul, quick sight, eye of the lynx,
a swift foresight, thought of the highest level,
one truly worthy to dwell in that breast!
Finding many a lady there selected
to adorn the lofty day and its festivity,
his good, sound judgment quickly recognized
the best among so many lovely faces.
The others, all of greater age or fortune,
he ordered with a gesture to one side
and sweetly called that one to come to him;
with a kind look her eyes and then her brow
he kissed which filled the others there with joy
and me with envy for this strange, sweet action.
239
When day is dawning and so sweet an aura
that always comes in spring to stir the flowers,
and little birds begin to sing their verses,
so sweetly I feel thoughts inside my soul
stirred by the one who holds them in her force
that I consent to go back to my notes.
Could I but temper with such gentle notes
my sighs in order that they sweeten Laura,
reasoning with the one who uses force!
But winter will become the season for flowers
before love blossoms in that noble soul
who never cared for rhymes or for my verses.
How many tears, alas, how many verses
I’ve scattered in my time; in how many notes
I’ve tried again to make humble that soul!
Ella si sta pur com’ aspr’ alpe a l’aura
dolce, la quai ben move frondi et fiori
ma nulla po se ’ncontr’ a maggior forza.
Omini et dei solea vincer per forza
Amor, come si legge in prose e ’n versi,
et io ’l provai in sul primo aprir de’ fiori;
ora né ’l mio signor, né le sue note,
né ’l pianger mio, né i preghi pon far Laura
trarre o di vita o di martir quest’alma.
A l’ultimo bisogno, o misera alma,
accampa ogni tuo ingegno, ogni tua forza,
mentre fra noi di vita alberga l’aura.
Nulla al mondo è che non possano i versi:
et li aspidi incantar sanno in lor note,
non che ’l gelo adornar di novi fiori.
Ridon or per le piagge erbette et fiori:
esser non po che quella angelica alma
non senta il suon de l’amorose note;
se nostra ria fortuna è di più forza,
lagrimando et cantando i nostri versi
et col bue zoppo andrem cacciando l’aura.
In rete accolgo l’aura e ’n ghiaccio i fiori,
e ’n versi tento sorda et rigida alma
che né forza d’Amor prezza né note.
She stands like a rough mountain to the aura
sweet, that indeed does move the leaves and flowers
but can do nothing against a greater force.
Mankind and gods are vanquished by the force
of Love, as we read both in prose and verse,
and I felt this when buds first turned to flowers;
but now neither my lord nor his own notes,
nor tears of mine nor prayers can cause Laura
to draw from life or martyrdom this soul.
In your last need, O miserable soul,
collect all of your wit, all of your force
while still among us dwells the living aura.
There’s nothing can’t be done by means of verses:
they can charm even serpents with their notes,
and decorate the frost with newborn flowers.
The slopes now laugh with tender grass and flowers:
it cannot be that her angelic soul
hears not the sound of all these amorous notes;
if our cruel fortune has a greater force,
we shall, weeping and singing out our verses,
go like the lame ox hunting for the aura.
In nets I catch the aura, in ice the flowers,
in verse I woo a deaf and rigid soul
who prizes neither force of love nor notes.
240
I’ ò pregato Amor, e ’l ne riprego,
che mi scusi appo voi, dolce mia pena,
amaro mio diletto, se con piena
fede dal dritto mio sentier mi piego.
I’ nol posso negar, Donna, et nol nego,
che la ragion ch’ ogni bona alma affrena
non sia dal voler vinta, ond’ ei mi mena
talor in parte ov’ io per forza il sego.
Voi con quel cor che di si chiaro ingegno,
di si alta vertute il cielo alluma
quanto mai piovve da benigna Stella,
devete dir pietosa et senza sdegno:
“Che po questi altro? il mio volto il consuma.
Ei perché ingordo, et io perché sì bella?”
241
L’alto signor dinanzi a cui non vale
nasconder né fuggir né difesa,
di bel piacer m’avea la mente accesa
con un ardente et amoroso strale;
et, ben che ’l primo colpo aspro et mortale
fossi da sé, per avanzar sua impresa
una saetta di pietate à presa
et quinci et quindi il cor punge et assale.
L’una piaga arde et versa foco et fiamma,
lagrime l’altra, che ’l dolor distilla
per li occhi mei del vostro stato rio;
né, per duo fonti, sol una favilla
rallenta de l’incendio che m’infiamma,
anzi per la pietà cresce ’l desio.
240
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?”
241
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 b
urning;
rather, through pity my desire grows.
242
“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.
243
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!
242
“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.