by Mark Musa
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.
284
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.”
285
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.
286
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.
287
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.
286
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.
287
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.
But do please greet the souls in the third sphere
of messer Cino, Dante, and Guittone,
our Franceschino, and all that company.
And to my lady certainly do mention
how much I live in tears, how wild I am
remembering her fair face and saintly deeds.
288
I’ ò pien di sospir quest’aere tutto,
d’aspri colli mirando il dolce piano
ove nacque colei ch’ avendo in mano
meo cor in sul fiorire e ’n sul far frutto
è gita al Cielo, ed àmmi a tal condutto
col subito partir che di lontano
gli occhi miei stanchi lei cercando invano
presso di sé non lassan loco asciutto.
Non è sterpo né sasso in questi monti,
non ramo o fronda verde in queste piagge,
non flore in queste valli o foglia d’erba,
stilla d’acqua non ven di queste fonti,
né fiere àn questi boschi si selvagge,
che non sappian quanto è mia pena acerba.
289
L’alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella,
ch’ ebbe qui ’l Ciel si amico et sì cortese,
anzi tempo per me nel suo paese
è ritornata et a la par sua stella.
Or comincio a svegliarmi, et veggio ch’ ella
per lo migliore al mio desir contese
et quelle voglie giovenili accese
temprò con una vista dolce et fella.
Lei ne ringrazio e ’l suo alto consiglio
che col bel viso e co’ soavi sdegni
fecemi ardendo pensar mia salute.
O leggiadre arti et lor effetti degni:
l’un co la lingua oprar, l’altra col ciglio,
io gloria in lei, et ella in me virtute!
288
I have filled with my sighs all of this air
gazing from rugged hills at the sweet plain
where she was born who, with my heart in hand
when it first blossomed and when it bore fruit,
has gone to Heaven and left me so distraught
with her quick parting that my weary eyes
that seek her from afar but to no end
leave not a place around them dry of tears.
There is no stick or stone in all these mountains,
no branch or a green leaf upon these shores,
no flower in these vales, no blade of grass,
no drop of water trickles from these springs,
no beasts so savage do these woods contain
that do not know how much my sorrow stings.
289
My lofty flame, beauty beyond all beauty,
to whom Heaven was the kindest friend on earth,
has gone to her own country, though too early,
back to her star that’s worthy of her presence.
Now I begin to waken and I see
that it was best that she fought my desire
and tempered all the burning lusts of youth
with countenance that was both bitter, sweet.
For this I thank her and her holy counsel,
that with her lovely face and gentle anger
made me in burning think of my salvation.
O gracious arts and their worthy effects:
one working with the tongue, one with a glance,
I for her glory, she for my well-being.
290
Come va ’l mondo! or mi diletta et piace
quel che più mi dispiacque, or veggio et sento
che per aver salute ebbi tormento,
et breve guerra per eterna pace.
O speranza, o desir sempre fallace,
et degli amanti più ben per un cento!
O quant’ era il peggior farmi contento
quella ch’ or siede in Cielo e ’n terra giace!
Ma ’l cieco Amor et la mia sorda mente
mi traviavan sì ch’ andar per viva
forza mi convenia dove Morte era:
benedetta colei ch’ a miglior riva
volse il mio corso et l’empia voglia ardente
lusingando affrenò perch’ io non pera!
291
Quand’ io veggio dal ciel scender l’Aurora
co la fronte di rose et co’ crin d’oro,
Amor m’assale ond’ io mi discoloro
et dico sospirando: “Ivi è Laura ora.
“O felice Titòn, tu sai ben l’ora
da ricovrare il tuo caro tesoro;
ma io che debbo far del dolce alloro?
ché se ’l vo’ riveder, conven ch’ io mora.
“I vostri dipartir non son si duri,
ch’ almen di notte suol tornar colei
che non à schifo le tue bianche chiome;
“le mie notti fa triste e i giorni oscuri
quella che n’à portato i penser miei,
né di sé m’à lasciato altro che ’l nome.”
290
How the world changes! Now I’m charmed and pleased
by what displeased me most; I see and feel
that to be saved I had to be tormented,
fight a short war for everlasting peace.
Oh hope, oh wishes always treacherous,
a hundred times more so for those in love!
How much worse had she made me happy then
who now sits up in Heaven and rests in earth!
But Love that’s blind and my own deafened mind
led me so far astray that by their lively
power I was forced to go where Death is found.
Blessèd be she who toward a better shore
turned my life’s course, and flattering a will
wicked, aflame, checked it so I not perish.
291
When I see coming down the sky Aurora
with roses on her brow and gold in hair,
Love seizes me and losing all my color
I sigh as I say, “Laura is there now.
“O glad Tithonus, you know when it’s time
to hold your precious treasure once again;
but I, what can I do with my sweet laurel?
To see her once again I have to die.
“Your partings aren’t so difficult to take—
at least at nighttime she returns to you,
and she does not despise your head of white;
“my nights she saddens and my days she darkens,
the one who carried off my thoughts with her
and left me of herself only her name.”
292
Gli occhi di ch’ io parlai si caídamente,
et le braccia et le mani e i piedi e ’l viso
che m’avean sì da me stesso diviso
et fatto singular da l’altra gente,
le crespe chiome d’or puro lucente
e ’l lampeggiar de l’angelico riso
che solean fare in terra un paradiso,
poca polvere son che nulla sente.
Et io pur vivo, onde mi doglio et sdegno,
rimaso senza ’l lume ch’ amai tanto
in gran fortuna e ’n disarmato legno.
Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto;
secca è la vena de l’usato ingegno,
et la cetera mia rivolta in pianto.
293
S’ io avesse pensato che si care
fossin le voci de’ sospir miei in rima,
fatte lavrei dal sospirar mio prima
in numero più spesse, in stil più rare.
Morta colei che mi facea parlare
et che si stava de’ pensier miei in cima,
non posso, et non ò più sì dolce lima,
rime aspre et fosche far soavi et chiare.
Et certo ogni mio studio in quel tempo era
pur di sfogare il doloroso core
in qualche modo, non d’acquistar fama.
Pianger cercai, non già del pianto onore;
or vorrei ben piacer, ma quella altera
tacito stanco dopo sé mi chiama.
292
Those eyes of which I spoke with such emotion,
the arms and hands and feet and countenance
that had estranged me from my very self
and made me different from all other people,
the curling locks of pure gold glimmering,
the lightning flash of an angelic smile
that used to turn the earth to paradise,
are bits of dust that can feel nothing now.
And I still live, which makes me sad and angry,
left here without the light I loved so much,
in a great storm, a ship that is dismantled.
Let my love song finish right here and now;
dry is the vein of my habitual art,
my lyre now has turned to playing tears.
293
If I had thought the sound of my voice sighing
in verses would turn out to be so dear,
I would have from the first time that I sighed
increased their number, polished more their style.
Dead is the one that used to make me speak,
who stood upon the summit of my thoughts,
so I cannot—my file’s no longer sweet—
turn what is rough and dark to smooth and clear.
At that time, certainly, my only care
was to release, somehow, the grief that filled
my heart, and not to win myself some fame.
I sought to weep, not honor from my weeping;
now I would gladly please, but that high one
calls me, silent, weary, after her.
294
Soleasi nel mio cor star bella et viva
com’ alta donna in loco umile et basso;
or son fatto io, per l’ultimo suo passo,
non pur mortal, ma morto, et ella è diva.
L’alma d’ogni suo ben spogliata et priva,
Amor de la sua luce ignudo et casso,
devrian de la pietà romper un sasso;
ma non è chi lor duol riconti o scriva,
ché piangon dentro, ov’ ogni orecchia è sorda
se non la mia, cui tanta doglia ingombra
ch’ altro che sospirar nulla m’avanza.
Veramente siam noi polvere et ombra,
veramente la voglia cieca e ’ngorda,
veramente fallace è la speranza.
295
Soleano i miei penser soavemente
di lor oggetto ragionare inseme:
“Pietà s’appressa et del tardar si pente;
forse or parla di noi, o spera o teme.”
Poi che l’ultimo giorno et l’ore estreme
spogliar di lei questa vita presente,
nostro stato dal Ciel vede, ode et sente;
altra di lei non è rimaso speme.
O miracol gentile, o felice alma,
o beltà senza esempio a
ltera et rara
che tosto è ritornata ond’ ella uscio!
Ivi à del suo ben far corona et palma
quella ch’ al mondo si famosa et chiara
fe’ la sua gran vertute e ’l furor mio.
294
She, lovely and alive, would fill my heart,
a great lady in a poor and humble home;
now I’ve become, because she’s passed away,
not just mortal, but dead, and she a goddess.
My soul of all its wealth despoiled, deprived,
Love of its light stripped bare and destitute,
could break a stone to pieces out of pity;
but no one can explain or write their pain,
for they lament within where no ear hears
save mine, and I am burdened by such pain
that I am left with nothing but my sighs.
In truth we are nothing but dust and shadow;
in truth desire is both blind and greedy;
in truth all hope turns out to be deceiving.
295
At times some of my thoughts would get together
and softly sweet converse about their object:
“Pity is close, and she regrets delaying;
perhaps she speaks of us now, hopes or fears.”
Now that the final day and the last hours
have stripped this present life of her own presence
she sees and hears and feels our state from Heaven—
no other hope of her is left us here.
Oh gracious miracle, oh happy soul!
Oh beauty that’s uncopied, rare, sublime
that soon returned to where it first had sprung!
There, crown and palm she has for her good works
who made so bright and famous in the world
her lofty virtue and my own mad passion.
296
I’ mi soglio accusare, et or mi scuso,
anzi mi pregio et tengo assai più caro,
de l’onesta pregion, del dolce amaro
colpo ch’ i’ portai già molt’anni chiuso.
Invide Parche, si repente il fuso
troncaste ch’ attorcea soave et chiaro