by Mark Musa
nor can a man do well what Heaven denies.”
Never could feather, though ingenious, fly,
nor learnèd style or words, as high as Nature
flew when she wove my sweet impediment;
Love followed her, and with such marvelous care
adorned her so that I was not fit even
to look—but my good luck allowed me to!
308
Quella per cui con Sorga ò cangiato Arno,
con franca povertà serve ricchezze,
volse in amaro sue sante dolcezze
ond’ io già vissi, or me ne struggo et scarno.
Da poi più volte ò riprovato indarno
al secol che verrà l’alte bellezze
pinger cantando, a ciò che l’ame et prezze,
né col mio stile il suo bel viso incarno.
Le lode, mai non d’altra et proprie sue,
che ’n lei fur come stelle in cielo sparte,
pur ardisco ombreggiare, or una or due;
ma poi ch’ i’ giungo a la divina parte,
ch’ un chiaro et breve sole al mondo fue.
ivi manca l’ardir, l’ingegno et l’arte.
309
L’ alto et novo miracol ch’ a’ dì nostri
apparve al mondo et star seco non volse,
che sol ne mostrò ’l Ciel, poi sel ritolse
per adorname i suoi stellanti chiostri,
vuol ch’ i’ depinga a chi nol vide e ’l mostri
Amor, che ’n prima la mia lingua sciolse;
poi mille volte indarno a l’opra volse
ingegno, tempo, penne, carte, enchiostri.
Non son al sommo ancor giunte le rime,
in me il conosco, et proval ben chiunque
è ’nfin a qui che d’Amor parli o scriva;
chi sa pensare, il ver tacito estime
ch’ ogni stil vince, et poi sospire: “Adunque
beati gli occhi che la vider viva!”
308
She for whom I exchanged Arno for Sorgue
and servile riches for free poverty,
turned into bitterness her holy sweetness
which fed me once, now leaves me worn and thin.
Since then I often made attempts, in vain,
to capture her high beauty in my verse
so those to come will love and cherish her,
but my style cannot make her fair face live.
The praises that were hers alone, no other’s,
hers like the stars that spreading fill the sky,
of them I try to sketch just one or two;
but when I touch upon the part divine
that was a bright but fleeting sun on earth,
my courage fails, my wit, and then my art.
309
The high, new miracle that in our time
appeared on earth but did not want to stay,
that Heaven merely showed us then took back
to decorate the cloisters of its stars,
Love, who once he’d given freedom to my tongue,
then put to work a thousand times in vain
talent and time and pens and ink and paper,
wants me to paint for those who have not seen.
My poetry is not yet at its highest,
I know this deep within, as anyone
who wrote or spoke of Love till now well knows.
He who can think, now think the silent truth
surpassing every style, and sigh: “Well, then,
God blessed those eyes that saw her still alive!”
310
Zefiro torna e ’l bel tempo rimena
e i fiori et l’erbe, sua dolce famiglia,
et garrir Progne et pianger Filomena,
et Primavera candida et vermiglia;
ridono i prati e ’l ciel si rasserena,
Giove s’allegra di mirar sua figlia,
l’aria et l’acqua et la terra è d’amor piena,
ogni animal d’amar si riconsiglia.
Ma per me, lasso, tornano i più gravi
sospiri che del cor profondo tragge
quella ch’ al Ciel se ne portò le chiavi;
et cantar augelletti, et fiorir piagge,
e ’n belle donne oneste atti soavi
sono un deserto et fere aspre et selvagge.
311
Quel rosigniuol che sì soave piagne
forse suoi figli o sua cara consorte,
di dolcezza empie il cielo et le campagne
con tante note sì pietose et scorte,
et tutta notte par che m’accompagne
et mi rammente la mia dura sorte;
ch’ altri che me non ò di chi mi lagne,
chè ’n dee non credev’ io regnasse Morte.
O che lieve è inganar chi s’assecura!
Que’ duo bei lumi assai più che ’l sol chiari
chi pensò mai veder far terra oscura?
Or cognosco io che mia fera ventura
vuol che vivendo et lagrimando impari
come nulla qua giù diletta et dura.
310
Zephyr comes back and brings with him fair weather
and his sweet family of grass and flowers,
and crying Philomel and chirping Procne,
and Springtime all in whiteness and vermilion;
the meadows smile, the skies turn clear again,
and Jove takes joy in gazing at his daughter;
the waters, earth, and air are full of love
and every living thing is bent on loving.
But there comes back to me only the gravest
of sighs that from the bottom of my heart
are drawn by one who took its keys to Heaven;
the song of birds, the flowering of meadows,
the noble, graciousness of lovely ladies
for me are deserts now, wild savage beasts.
311
That nightingale so tenderly lamenting
perhaps his children or his cherished mate,
in sweetness fills the sky and countryside
with many notes of grief skillfully played,
and all night long he stays with me it seems,
reminding me of my harsh destiny;
I have no one to blame except myself
for thinking Death could not rule such a goddess.
How easy to deceive one who is sure!
Those two lights, lovely, brighter than the sun,
whoever thought would turn the earth so dark?
And now I know what this fierce fate of mine
would have me learn as I live on in tears:
that nothing here can please and also last.
312
Né per sereno ciel ir vaghe stelle,
né per tranquillo mar legni spalmati,
né per campagne cavalieri armati,
né per bei boschi allegre fere et snelle,
né d’aspettato ben fresche novelle,
né dir d’amore in stili alti et ornati,
né tra chiare fontane et verdi prati
dolce cantare oneste donne et belle,
né altro sarà mai ch’ al cor m’aggiunga:
si seco il seppe quella sepellire
che sola agli occhi miei fu lume et speglio.
Noia m’è ’l viver si gravosa et lunga
ch’ i’ chiamo il fine per lo gran desire
di riveder cui non veder fu ’l meglio.
313
Passato è ’l tempo omai, lasso, che tanto
con refrigerio in mezzo ’l foco vissi;
passato è quella di ch’ io piansi et scrissi,
ma lasciato m’à ben la penna e ’l pianto.
Passato è ’l viso si leggiadro et santo,
ma passando i dolci occhi al cor m’à fissi:
al cor già mio che seguendo partissi
lei ch’ avolto l’avea nel suo bel manto.
Ella ’l se ne portò sotierra, e ’n Cielo
ove or triunfa
ornata de l’alloro
che meritò la sua invitta onestate.
Così disciolto dal mortal mio velo,
ch’ a forza mi tien qui, foss’ io con loro
fuor de’ sospir, fra l’anime beate!
312
No lovely stars that roam through limpid skies,
no well-oiled ships upon a tranquil sea,
no knights in armor through the countryside,
no swift and frisky beasts in charming woods,
no recent news of long-awaited joy,
no poems of love in lofty, ornate style,
nor there amid clear springs and fields of green
sweet song of ladies virtuous and lovely,
nor other thing can ever touch my heart:
she buried it so deep with her own self
who was alone for my eyes light and mirror.
So long and heavy is the pain of living,
that I call for the end, so much I want
to see the one I should have never seen.
313
Gone is the time now, O my grief, that I
lived so refreshed within those burning flames.
Gone is the one for whom I wept and wrote
but who still leaves me with my pen and tears.
Gone is the face so charming and so holy
that going pierced my heart with those sweet eyes,
that heart once mine which left to follow her,
the one who wrapped it in her lovely cloak.
She took it underground and up to Heaven
where now she triumphs decked in laurel leaf,
which her unconquered chastity deserved.
If only I, freed of my mortal veil
that holds me here by force, were with them there,
beyond all sighs, amid the blessèd souls!
314
Mente mia, che presaga de’ tuoi danni,
al tempo lieto già pensosa et trista,
sì ’ntentamente ne l’amata vista
requie cercavi de’ futuri affanni:
agli atti, a le parole, al viso, ai panni,
a la nova pietà con dolor mista
potei ben dir, se del tutto eri avista:
“Questo è l’ultimo di de’ miei dolci anni.”
Qual dolcezza fu quella, misera alma,
come ardevamo in quel punto ch’ i’ vidi
gli occhi i quai non devea riveder mai,
quando a lor, come a’ duo amici più fidi,
partendo in guardia la più nobil salma,
i miei cari penseri e ’l cor, lasciai!
315
Tutta la mia fiorita et verde etade
passava, e ’ntepidir sentia già ’l foco
ch’ arse il mio core, et era giunto al loco
ove scende la vita ch’ al fin cade;
già incominciava a prender securtade
la mia cara nemica a poco a poco
de’ suoi sospetti, et rivolgeva in gioco
mie pene acerbe sua dolce onestade;
presso era ’l tempo dove Amor si scontra
con Castitate et agli amanti è dato
sedersi inseme et dir che lor incontra.
Morte ebbe invidia al mio felice stato,
anzi a la speme, et feglisi a l’incontra
a mezza via come nemico armato.
314
O my mind that, foreseeing grievous loss,
already worried, sad, in happy times
in the belovèd sight, sought so intently
some consolation from your coming troubles:
from how she moved and spoke and looked and dressed,
from her strange pity that was mixed with pain,
you could have said, were you fully aware:
“This is the last day of my years of sweetness.”
What sweetness in that moment, my poor soul!
How much we burned the time that I beheld
those eyes that I would never see again,
that time when leaving I left in their keeping
(as if they were two of my truest friends)
my noblest part—my loving thoughts, my heart.
315
All of my flowering and my green age
was passing, and already I felt cooling
the fire in my heart, and I had reached
the point where life declines to meet its end;
already my dear enemy was slowly
beginning to gain confidence against
her fears and playfully to turn to joy
my bitter pains with her sweet honesty;
the time was near when Love is reconciled
with Chastity and lovers are allowed
to sit and talk, confiding in each other.
Then Death envied that blissful state of mine—
rather the hope—and rushed attacking it
halfway, just like an enemy all armed.
316
Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua
di tanta guerra, et erane in via, forse,
se non che’ lieti passi indietro torse
chi le disaguaglianze nostre adegua;
chè come nebbia al vento si dilegua
così sua vita subito trascorse
quella che già co’ begli occhi mi scorse,
et or conven che col penser la segua.
Poco aveva a ’ndugiar che gli anni e ’l pelo
cangiavano i costumi, onde sospetto
non fora il ragionar del mio mal seco;
con che onesti sospiri l’avrei detto
le mie lunghe fatiche! ch’ or dal Cielo
vede, son certo, et duolsene ancor meco.
317
Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore
a la mia lunga et torbida tempesta
fra gli anni de la età matura, onesta,
che i vizi spoglia et vertù veste e onore;
già traluceva a’ begli occhi il mio core
et l’alta fede non più lor molesta.
Ahi, Morte ria, come a schiantar se’ presta
il frutto de molt’anni in si poche ore!
Pur vivendo veniasi ove deposto
in quelle caste orecchie avrei, parlando,
de’ miei dolci pensier l’antica soma,
et ella avrebbe a me forse resposto
qualche santa parola sospirando,
cangiati i volti et l’una et l’altra coma.
316
Now it was time to find my peace or truce
from such a war, and it might have been near,
but those glad steps were turned back by the one
who evens out our inequalities;
for as the mist vanishes with the wind,
so suddenly did she run through her life,
the one whose lovely eyes would guide my way,
whom I can follow now only in thought.
She hadn’t long to wait, for years and hair
were changing me, and she need have no fear
that I would talk to her about my troubles.
With what virtuous sighs I would have told her
of my long labors, which from Heaven now
she sees, I’m sure, and grieves for them with me.
317
Love showed to me a port of peacefulness
from my unending storming turbulence
during the years of chaste maturity
that strips off vice to don virtue and honor;
my heart and my deep faithfulness now shone
in her fair eyes worried for them no longer.
Ah, wicked Death, how quick you are to spoil
the fruit of many years in so few hours!
If she had lived the day would come when I,
talking, would have entrusted her chaste ears
with all the ancient weight of my sweet thoughts,
and she, perhaps, would have replied to me
in chosen words of sighing consolation,
our faces changed, our hair, both hers a
nd mine.
318
Al cader d’una pianta che si svelse
come quella che ferro o vento sterpe,
spargendo a terra le sue spoglie eccelse,
mostrando al sol la sua squalida sterpe,
vidi un’altra, ch’ Amor obietto scelse,
subietto in me Calliope et Euterpe,
che ’l cor m’avinse et proprio albergo felse,
qual per trunco o per muro edera serpe.
Quel vivo lauro, ove solean far nido
li alti penseri e i miei sospiri ardenti
che de’ bei rami mai non mossen fronda,
al Ciel translato, in quel suo albergo fido
lasciò radici onde con gravi accenti
è ancor chi chiami, et non è chi responda.
319
I dì miei più leggier che nesun cervo
fuggir come ombra, et non vider più bene
ch’ un batter d’occhio, et poche ore serene
ch’ amare et dolci ne la mente servo.
Misero mondo instabile et protervo,
del tutto è cieco chi ’n te pon sua spene,
ché ’n te mi fu ’l cor tolto, et or sel tene
tal ch’ è già terra et non giunge osso a nervo.
Ma la forma miglior che vive ancora
et vivrà sempre su ne l’ alto cielo,
di sue bellezze ogni or più m’innamora;
et vo sol in pensar cangiando il pelo
quale ella è oggi e ’n qual parte dimora,
qual a vedere il suo leggiadro velo.
318
At a tree’s crash just torn up from the ground
as if uprooted by the wind or iron,
scattering on the earth its noble spoil,
displaying to the sun its wretched root,
I saw another Love chose as my goal,
and Euterpe and Calliope as my subject,
that bound my heart and turned it into home
as ivy winds its way on trunk or wall.
That living laurel, where there often nested
my lofty thoughts, my sighs of burning passion
that never stirred a leaf on those fair boughs,