Petrarch

by Mark Musa

  morend’ io, non moria mia vita inseme,

  anzi vivea di me l’ottima parte;

  or mie speranze sparte

  à Morte, et poca terra il mio ben preme,

  et vivo, et mai nol penso ch’ i’ non treme.

  Se stato fusse il mio poco intelletto

  meco al bisogno, et non altra vaghezza

  l’avesse disviando altrove vòlto,

  ne la fronte a Madonna avrei ben letto:

  “Al fin se’ giunto d’ogni tua dolcezza

  et al principio del tuo amaro molto.”

  that cherished food devoured by the one

  who leaves the world naked and my heart sad,

  the sweet bitter, and lovely pleasure pain

  becomes for me from day to day; and so life’s journey,

  though brief, I fear and hope not to complete.

  A mist or dust caught in the wind, I flee

  to be no more a pilgrim in this life,

  and let it happen if it be my fate.

  I never liked this mortal life of ours

  (Love knows with whom I often spoke of it)

  except for her who was its light and mine;

  that spirit I once lived in having died

  on earth to be reborn in Heaven, my wish

  above all is to follow her—if only!

  But I shall always have to grieve, for I

  was poorly skilled in seeing my condition,

  which Love showed me beneath that lovely brow

  to give me other counsel:

  many have died in sorrow, unconsoled,

  who might have died in joy by dying sooner.

  Within the eyes in which my heart once lived

  (until cruel fate began to envy it

  and banished it from that rich dwelling place),

  in his own hand Love had inscribed in letters

  made out of pity telling what would come

  quite soon from my long journey of desire.

  How nice and sweet if I had died then; when

  dying my life would not have died with me—

  rather, the best of me would have lived on;

  and now my hopes are scattered

  by Death; a bit of earth hides all my wealth,

  and I live on—to think of it I tremble.

  If all the little intellect I have,

  when I had needed, and another yearning

  had not turned it elsewhere and made it stray,

  clear on my lady’s brow I might have read:

  “Now you have reached where all your sweetness ends

  and the beginning of great bitterness.”

  Questo intendendo, dolcemente sciolto

  in sua presenzia del mortal mio velo

  et di questa noiosa et grave carne,

  potea inanzi lei andarne

  a veder preparar sua sedia in Cielo:

  or l’andrò dietro omai con altro pelo.

  Canzon, s’ uom trovi in suo amor viver queto,

  dí: “Muor mentre se’ lieto,

  ché morte al tempo è non duol ma refugio,

  et chi ben po morir non cerchi indugio.”

  332

  Mia benigna fortuna e ’l viver lieto,

  i chiari giorni et le tranquille notti

  e i soavi sospiri, e ’l dolce stile

  che solea resonare in versi e ’n rime,

  vòlti subitamente in doglia e ’n pianto

  odiar vita mi fanno et bramar morte.

  Crudele, acerba, inesorabil Morte,

  cagion mi dài di mai non esser lieto

  ma di menar tutta mia vita in pianto

  e i giorni oscuri et le dogliose notti;

  i mei gravi sospir non vanno in rime,

  e ’l mio duro martir vince ogni stile.

  Ove è condutto il mio amoroso stile?

  a parlar d’ira, a ragionar di morte.

  U’ sono i versi, u’ son giunte le rime

  che gentil cor udia pensoso et lieto?

  Ov’ è ’l favoleggiar d’amor le notti?

  Or non pari’ io né penso altro che pianto.

  Già mi fu col desir sì dolce il pianto

  che condia di dolcezza ogni agro stile

  et vegghiar mi facea tutte le notti;

  or m’è ’l pianger amaro più che morte,

  If I had understood this, sweetly freed

  (and in her presence) of my mortal veil,

  of this heavy, burdensome flesh of mine,

  I could have gone before her

  to watch Heaven prepare for her a throne—

  but now I’ll follow her, with my hair changed.

  Song, should you find a man who loves in peace,

  say: “Die while you are happy,

  for timely death is not grief but a refuge:

  let he who can die well delay no longer.”

  332

  My kindly fortune and my life, so happy,

  the clear-lit days and all the tranquil nights,

  the gentle-flowing sighs and the sweet style

  that would resound in all my verse and rhymes—

  all of a sudden turned to grief and tears—

  make me hate life and make me yearn for death.

  Cruel, bitter, inexorable Death,

  you give me reason never to be happy,

  but rather to lead all my life in tears,

  with days of darkness and sorrowful nights;

  my heavy sighs cannot turn into rhymes,

  and my harsh torment goes beyond all style.

  To what end has it come, my loving style,

  talking of anger, or discussing death?

  Where have they gone, those verses and those rhymes

  a gentle heart would hear thoughtful and happy?

  Where is that talk of love through all those nights?

  I talk now and I think nothing but tears.

  Once my desire was so sweet with tears,

  its sweetness seasoned every bitter style

  and made me stay awake through all those nights;

  now weeping is more bitter than is death

  non sperando mai ’l guardo onesto et lieto,

  alto sogetto a le mie basse rime.

  Chiaro segno Amor pose a le mie rime

  dentro a belli occhi, et or l’a posto in pianto

  con dolor rimembrando il tempo lieto,

  ond’ io vo col penser cangiando stile

  et ripregando te, pallida Morte,

  che mi sottragghi a sì penose notti.

  Fuggito è ’l sonno a le mie crude notti,

  e ’l sono usato a le mie roche rime

  che non sanno trattar altro che morte;

  così è ’l mio cantar converso in pianto.

  Non à ’l regno d’Amor si vario stile,

  ch’ è tanto or tristo quanto mai fu lieto.

  Nesun visse giamai più di me lieto,

  nesun vive più tristo et giorni et notti,

  et doppiando ’l dolor, doppia lo stile

  che trae del cor si lacrimose rime.

  Vissi di speme, or vivo pur di pianto,

  né contra Morte spero altro che morte.

  Morte m’à morto, et sola po far Morte

  ch’ i’ torni a riveder quel viso lieto

  che piacer mi facea i sospiri e ’l pianto,

  l’aura dolce et la pioggia a le mie notti

  quando i penseri eletti tessea in rime,

  Amor alzando il mio debile stile.

  Or avess’ io un sì pietoso stile

  che Laura mia potesse torre a Morte

  come Euridice Orfeo sua senza rime,

  ch’ i’ viverei ancor più che mai lieto!

  S’ esser non po, qualcuna d’este notti

  chiuda omai queste due fonti di pianto.

  Amor, i’ ò molti et molt’anni pianto

  mio grave danno in doloroso stile,

  né da te spero mai men fere notti;

  et però mi son mosso a pregar Morte

&
nbsp; che mi tolla di qui per farme lieto

  ove è colei che i’ canto et piango in rime.

  without hope of that glance, honest and happy,

  the lofty subject of my lowly rhymes.

  A clear goal Love once set for all my rhymes

  in those fair eyes, now he set it in tears

  recalling in my sorrow times so happy,

  so I go changing with my thought my style

  and begging and rebegging you, pale Death,

  to rescue me from such tormenting nights.

  All sleep has run away from my cruel nights

  as has the usual sound from my hoarse rhymes

  that cannot deal with anything but death,

  and so my singing now has turned to tears.

  Love’s kingdom does not know such varied style,

  one now as sad as ever it was happy.

  There never lived a man who was more happy,

  and no one lives more sadly days and nights

  and doubling up his grief doubles his style

  that pulls from out his heart such tearful rhymes.

  I lived on hope, I live now just on tears

  hoping against Death only for my death.

  Death gave me death, and it is only Death

  can make me see again the face so happy

  that filled with pleasure all my sighs and tears,

  the breath so sweet, the rain of all my nights

  when noble thoughts were woven into rhymes

  by Love as he raised up my fragile style.

  Would that I had so sorrowful a style

  that I could get my Laura back from Death

  as Orpheus did Eurydice without rhymes,

  then I would be, more than I’ve been, so happy!

  If this can never be, then let some nights

  come soon and close my two fountains of tears.

  Love, many, many years I have shed tears

  for my grave loss and in a grieving style

  and there’s no hope you’ll make less cruel my nights,

  and so now I have turned to begging Death

  to take me from this place, and make me happy,

  to her for whom I sing and weep in rhymes.

  Se si alto pon gir mie stanche rime

  ch’ agiungan lei ch’ è fuor d’ira et di pianto

  et fa ’l Ciel or di sue bellezze lieto,

  ben riconoscerà ’l mutato stile

  che già forse le piacque anzi che Morte

  chiaro a lei giorno, a me fesse atre notti.

  O voi che sospirate a miglior notti,

  ch’ ascoltate d’Amore o dite in rime,

  pregate non mi sia più sorda Morte,

  porto de le miserie et fin del pianto;

  muti una volta quel suo antiquo stile

  ch’ ogni uom attrista et me po far sì lieto.

  Far mi po lieto in una o ’n poche notti,

  e ’n aspro stile e ’n angosciose rime

  prego che ’l pianto mio finisca Morte.

  333

  Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso

  che ’l mio caro tesoro in terra asconde,

  ivi chiamate chi dal Ciel risponde

  ben che ’l mortal sia in loco oscuro et basso.

  Ditele ch’ i’ son già di viver lasso,

  del navigar per queste orribili onde,

  ma ricogliendo le sue sparte fronde

  dietro le vo pur così passo passo,

  sol di lei ragionando viva et morta

  (anzi pur viva, et or fatta immortale),

  a ciò che ’l mondo la conosca et ame.

  Piacciale al mio passar esser accorta,

  ch’ è presso omai; siami a l’incontro, et quale

  ella è nel Cielo, a sé mi tiri et chiame.

  If they can reach so high, my weary rhymes

  and join the one beyond sorrow and tears

  who with her beauty now makes Heaven happy,

  she’ll surely recognize my change of style

  which once pleased her, perhaps, until came Death

  to make bright day for her, for me dark nights.

  O all of you who sigh for better nights,

  who listen about Love or write in rhymes,

  pray Death to be no longer deaf to me,

  the port of misery, the end of tears;

  for once let her give up her ancient style

  that brings all sorrow but can make me happy.

  She can make me happy in a few nights,

  and in harsh style and in my anguished rhymes

  I pray my tears come to an end with Death.

  333

  Go now, my grieving verse, to the hard stone

  that hides my precious treasure in the earth;

  and there call her, who will respond from Heaven

  although her mortal part be darkly buried,

  and tell her I am weary now of living,

  of sailing through the horrors of this sea,

  but that, by gathering up her scattered leaves,

  I follow her this way, step after step,

  speaking of her alone, alive and dead

  (rather, alive, and now immortalized),

  so that the world may know and love her more.

  Let her watch for the day I pass away

  (it is not far from now), let her meet me,

  call me, draw me to what she is in Heaven.

  334

  S’ onesto amor po meritar mercede

  et se pietà ancor po quant’ ella suole,

  mercede avrò, ché più chiara che ’l sole

  a Madonna et al mondo è la mia fede.

  Già di me paventosa, or sa, nol crede,

  che quello stesso ch’ or per me si vole

  sempre si volse; et s’ ella udia parole

  o vedea ’l volto, or l’animo e ’l cor vede.

  Ond’ i’ spero che ’nfin al Ciel si doglia

  di miei tanti sospiri; et così mostra,

  tornando a me si piena di pietate;

  et spero ch’ al por giù di questa spoglia

  venga per me con quella gente nostra,

  vera amica di Cristo et d’onestate.

  335

  Vidi fra mille donne una già tale

  ch’ amorosa paura il cor m’assalse,

  mirandola in imagini non false

  a li spirti celesti in vista eguale.

  Niente in lei terreno era o mortale

  si come a cui del Ciel, non d’altro, calse;

  l’alma, ch’ arse per lei si spesso et alse,

  vaga d’ir seco aperse ambedue l’ale,

  ma tropp’ era alta al mio peso terrestre,

  et poco poi n’uscì in tutto di vista,

  di che pensando ancor m’aghiaccio et torpo.

  O belle et alte et lucide fenestre

  onde colei che molta gente attrista

  trovò la via d’entrare in si bel corpo!

  334

  If love that’s virtuous can merit mercy

  and pity’s strong as she has ever been,

  I’ll find reward, for brighter than the sun

  my faith is to the world and to my lady

  She used to fear me, now she knows for certain

  the very thing I want now I have always

  wanted, and if she once heard words or saw

  my face, now she can see my heart and soul.

  And so I hope Heaven will grieve at last

  for all my sighs, and so it seems it does

  as she returns to me so full of pity;

  I hope when these remains are left behind

  she’ll come for me with all that host of ours,

  who are true friends of Christ and honesty.

  335

  Among a thousand ladies I saw one

  so great that amorous fear besieged my heart,

  observing her through no false images,

  she looked just like a spirit of the heavens.

  No signs of earth or mortal cares in
her,

  like one she was who cared only for Heaven;

  my soul which burned and froze for her so often,

  yearning to follow her, spread both its wings.

  Too high she was for earthly weight like mine,

  and soon she was out of my sight completely—

  I freeze and stiffen at the thought of it.

  O lovely, lofty windows of clear light

  where she, who makes so many people grieve,

  found entrance into such a splendid body!

  336

  Tornami a mente (anzi v’è dentro quella

  ch’ indi per Lete esser non po sbandita)

  qual io la vidi in su l’età fiorita

  tutta accesa de’ raggi di sua Stella;

  sì nel mio primo occorso onesta et bella

  veggiola in sè raccolta et sì romita,

  ch’ i’ grido: “Ell’ è ben dessa, ancor è in vita!”

  e ’n don le cheggio sua dolce favella.

  Talor risponde et talor non fa motto;

  i’ come uom ch’ erra et poi più dritto estima

  dico a la mente mia: “Tu se’ ’ngannata.

  “Sai che ’n mille trecento quarantotto,

  il dì sesto d’aprile, in l’ora prima

  del corpo uscio quell’anima beata.”

  337

  Quel che d’odore et di color vincea

  l’odorifero et lucido oriente,

  frutti, fiori, erbe et frondi onde ’l ponente

  d’ogni rara eccellenzia il pregio avea,

  dolce mio lauro, ove abitar solea

  ogni bellezza, ogni vertute ardente,

  vedeva a la sua ombra onestamente

  il mio signor sedersi et la mia dea.

  Ancor io il nido di penseri eletti

  posi in quell’alma pianta, e ’n foco e ’n gielo

  tremando, ardendo, assai felice fui.

  Pieno era il mondo de’ suoi onor perfetti,

  allor che Dio per adornarne il Cielo

  la si ritolse, et cosa era da lui.

  336

  She comes to mind (no, she is always there—

  not even Lethe can erase her image)

  the way I saw her in her flowering,

  all splendid in the rays of her own star.

  I first encounter her so chaste and lovely,

  and see her so withdrawn and on her own,

  I cry, “It’s truly she, she’s still alive!”

  I ask her for the gift of her sweet words.