Canzoniere 203

I’ piansi, or canto; ché ’l celeste lume
quel vivo sole alli occhi mei non cela,
nel qual onesto Amor chiaro revela
sua dolce forza, e suo santo costume:

onde e’ suol trar di lagrime tal fiume,
per accorciar del mio viver la tela,
che non pur ponte o guado, o remi o vela,
ma scampar non potiemmi ale né piume.

Sí profondo era, e di sí larga vena
il pianger mio, e sí lunge la riva,
ch’i’ v’aggiungeva col penser appena.

Non lauro o palma, ma tranquilla oliva
pietà mi manda. e ’l tempo rasserena,
e ’l pianto asciuga, e vuol ancor ch’i’ viva.

 

I wept, and now I sing because the sun
pours out its holy light on me at last,
wherein Love shows a power unsurpassed,
a graciousness beyond comparison,

who once released my tears and let them run,
intending that my life be shed as fast,
in floods too wild for ships to sail, too vast
for wings to navigate - and I had none.

So deep they were, those floods, and in such spate
the tears I wept, and so remote the shore
they mocked my spirit's furthest estimate.

Now Pity, spurning palm and laurel for
the olive, makes the weather temperate,
and dries my eyes, and bids me live once more.

Canzoniere 117

Se ’l sasso, ond’è più chiusa questa valle,
di che ’l suo proprio nome si deriva,
tenesse vòlto, per natura schiva,
a Roma il viso et a Babel le spalle,

 i miei sospiri più benigno calle
avrian per gire ove lor spene è viva:
or vanno sparsi, e pur ciascuno arriva
là dov’io il mando, che sol un non falle;

e son di là sì dolcemente accolti,
com’io m’accorgo, che nessun mai torna,
con tal diletto in quelle parti stanno.

De gli occhi è duol; che tosto che s’aggiorna
per gran desio de’ be’ luoghi a lor tolti,
dànno a me pianto, et a’ pie’ lassi affanno.

 

If this great rock which blocks the valley’s end,
this rock from which the valley takes its name,
could turn from Babel’s intrigue and ill-fame
to gaze on Rome and greet her as a friend

my sighs would take more open flight and wend
their way in flocks to where Hope feeds her flame:
sighs scattered now, yet reaching just the same
the bliss to which their single courses tend.

There they receive the welcome they are due
so that, now I consider, none return,
so gracious is their dwelling, so replete.

My eyes shed pain: from dawn to dusk they yearn
to see the places missing from their view
and give me grief, and tire my broken feet.

Canzoniere 136

Fiamma del ciel su le tue treccie piova,
malvagia, che dal fiume e da le ghiande
per l’altrui impoverir se’ ricca e grande,
poi che di mal oprar tanto ti giova:

nido di tradimenti, in cui si cova
quanto mal per lo mondo oggi si spande,
de vin serva, di letti e di vivande,
in cui lussuria fa l’ultima prova.

Per le camere tue fanciulle e vecchi
vanno trescando, e Belzebub in mezzo
co’ mantici, e col foco, e co li specchi.

Già non fostù nudrita in piume al rezzo,
ma nuda al vento, e scalza fra gli stecchi:
or vivi sì ch’a Dio ne venga il lezzo.

 

May fire from heaven rain down on her tresses!
For she who broke her fast on nuts and water
now lets a beggared populace support her,
her profit there wherever their distress is.

Her belly hurts; each day from its recesses
break forth upon the world the plagues that fraught her —
or is it that her appetites contort her
unstilled by pleasure’s uttermost excesses?

Old men chase through her chambers girls whose blushes
Beelezebub inflames to red elation,
while urging senile blood until it rushes.

Yet she was born aloof from all temptation
and walked bare-foot among the thorny bushes.
Now heaven groans to smell her perspiration.

Canzoniere 153

Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core;
rompete il ghiaccio che pietà contende,
e se prego mortale al ciel s’intende,
morte, o mercé sia fine al mio dolore. 

Ite, dolci penser, parlando fòre
di quello ove ’l bel guardo non se stende:
se pur sua asprezza, o mia stella n’offende,
sarem fuor di speranza e fuor d’errore.
 
Dir se pò ben per voi, non forse a pieno,
che ’l nostro stato è inquieto e fosco,
sí come ’l suo pacifico e sereno. 

Gite securi omai, ch’Amor vèn vosco;
e ria fortuna pò ben venir meno,
s’a i segni del mio sol l’aere conosco.

 

Go, burning sighs, and though her heart be cold
dissolve the ice that chills its tenderness;
so she shall bar my prayers or confess
her love, and either way I’ll be consoled.

Go, gentle thoughts, let her at last behold
all she contrived to keep from consciousness;
so she shall minister to my distress
or, scorning my delusions, break their hold.

For you can say, though not perhaps in full,
how dark my moods are, and how violent,
as violent as hers are equable.

Go now and be assured of Love’s assent;
for after evil weather comes the lull,
if I know how to read my sun’s intent.

Canzoniere 170

Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano
ho preso ardir co le mie fide scorte
d’assalir con parole oneste accorte
la mia nemica in atto umíle e piano: 

fanno poi gli occhi suoi mio penser vano,
per ch’ogni mia fortuna, ogni mia sorte,
mio ben, mio mal, e mia vita, e mia morte
quei che solo il pò far, l’ha posto in mano. 

Ond’o non poté’ mai formar parola
ch’altro che da me stesso fosse intesa;
cosí m’ha fatto Amor tremante e fioco. 

E veggi’ or ben che caritate accesa
lega la lingua altrui, gli spirti invola:
chi pò dir com’egli arde, e ’n picciol foco.

 

The dream of beauty that her features frame
has often roused me from my loyal tears
to murmur soft reproaches in her ears
and tire her treachery with gentle blame;

her eyes seek mine, and then such thoughts lie lame,
for He who cut the tally of my years
in which each stroke of luck and loss appears
vouchsafed it her to rule me in His name.

So I, who search in vain for words that might
let others guess the force of my emotion,
succumb at last to unexpressed desire

and know too well: the blaze of such devotion
sears a man’s mouth and puts his thoughts to flight —
and those who speak have scarcely felt the fire.

Canzoniere 201

Mia ventura, et Amor, m’avean sí adorno
d’un bello aurato e serico trapunto,
ch’al sommo del mio ben quasi era aggiunto,
pensando meco a chi fu quest’intorno.
 
Né mi riede a la mente mai quel giorno,
che mi fe’ ricco, e povero, in un punto,
ch’i’ non sia d’ira, e di dolor, compunto,
pien di vergogna, e d’amoroso scorno; 

ché la mia nobil preda non più stretta
tenni al bisogno, e non fui più costante
contra lo sforzo sol d’un’angioletta; 

o, fugendo, ale non giunsi a le piante,
per far almen di quella man vendetta,
che de li occhi mi trae lagrime tante. 

 

Good Luck and Love so filled my palm with bliss — 
an artefact of woven silk and gold —
I thought all happiness was mine to hold,
repeating to myself, “Whose glove was this?”

Now memories too constant to dismiss
evoke that joy no sooner seized than sold
for loveless smiles and civil words; and scold
my heart to scorn for being so remiss!

My grip that seemed so strong it might withstand
hell's worst attempts to make it yield the prize
Her angel voice sufficed to countermand.

I should — outracing Hermes as he flies —
have fled and taken vengeance on the hand
that drew tears in such numbers from my eyes.

Canzoniere 203

Lasso!, ch’i’ ardo, et altri non mel crede;
sí crede ogni uom, se non sola colei
che sovr’ogni altra, e ch’i’ sola vorrei:
ella non par che ’l creda, e sí sel vede. 

Infinita bellezza, e poca fede,
non vedete voi ’l cor, nelli occhi mei?
Se non fusse mia stella, i’ pur devrei
al fonte di pietà trovar mercede. 

Quest’arder mio, di che vi cal sí poco,
e i vostri onori, in mie rime diffusi,
ne porìan infiammar fors’anco mille; 

ch’i’ veggio nel penser, dolce mio foco,
fredda una lingua, e duo belli occhi chiusi
rimaner, dopo noi, pien di faville.

 

My ardent love reaps incredulity;
that is: all know the truth of it but her
who most I was determined should aver
the sorrow she decided not to see.

Can you, Great Beauty, Perjured Loyalty,
look in my eyes yet see no passion stir?
Were not my stars so much the mightier
I’d take the rich rewards you owe to me.

This flame of which you hardly feel the heat,
these honours that I bring to you in rhyme
might, as I think, inspire a thousand souls;

and my mind’s eye discerns, oh Light so Sweet,
a tongue grown cold, two eyes closed for all time
remaining after us to glow like coals

Canzoniere 271

L’ardente nodo ov’io fui d’ora in ora,
contando anni ventuno interi preso,
Morte disciolse; né già mai tal peso
provai, né credo ch’uom di dolor mora.

Non volendomi Amor perdermi ancóra,
ebbe un altro lacciuol fra l’erba teso,
e di nova ésca un altro foco acceso,
tal ch’a gran pena indi scampato fôra.

E se non fosse esperienzia molta
de’ primi affanni, i’ sarei preso, et arso,
tanto più quanto son men verde legno.

Morte m’hai liberato un’altra volta,
e rotto ’l nodo, e ’l foco ha spento e sparso;
contra la qual non val forza né ’ngegno.

 

Held in a fiery knot without relief
as twenty-one years passed and only then
set free by Death, I knew the power of men
to suffer sorrow beggars all belief.

So Love, who thought my servitude too brief,
set snares in tinder undergrowth that when
I wandered near I’d fall and burn again —
it seemed that I was bound to come to grief.

And were it not for the experience
the first time brought, I’d smoke now like a cinder —
the more because my frame grows dry at length.

Death once again was my deliverance;
he broke the knot, shook forth the glowing tinder —
and sets at nothing subtlety and strength.

Canzoniere 328

L’ultimo, lasso!, de’ miei giorni allegri,
che pochi ho visto in questo viver breve,
giunto era, e fatto ’l cor tepida neve,
forse presago de’ dí tristi e negri.

Qual ha già i nervi e i polsi e i penser egri
cui domestica febbre assalir deve,
tal mi sentìa, non sappiend’io che lève
venisse ’l fin de’ miei ben non intègri.

Li occhi belli, or in ciel chiari e felici
del lume onde salute e vita piove,
lasciando i miei qui miseri e mendici,

dicean lor con faville oneste e nove:
— Rimanetevi in pace, o cari amici;
qui mai più, no ma rivedrenne altrove. —

 

I knew it was my final happy day,
the last one of the few that were my lot,
foreseeing, as my heart began to rot
the dark and dismal seasons on the way.

For, as a man whose pulse, whose nerves betray
the fever long before his breath grows hot,
I’d waited for fresh complications, not
a sudden end to gradual decay.

Those lovely eyes I knew would one day shed
the manna of their sustenance and bliss —
before they left my own to beg their bread

spoke to them with a flashing emphasis:
be still, my friends, be still and comforted.
We’ll meet, but in some other place than this.

Canzoniere 81

Io son sí stanco sotto 'l fascio antico
de le mie colpe et de l'usanza ria
ch'i' temo forte di mancar tra via,
et di cader in man del mio nemico.

Ben venne a dilivrarmi un grande amico
per somma et ineffabil cortesia;
poi volò fuor de la veduta mia,
sí ch'a mirarlo indarno m'affatico.

Ma la sua voce anchor qua giú rimbomba:
O voi che travagliate, ecco 'l camino;
venite a me, se 'l passo altri non serra.

Qual gratia, qual amore, o qual destino
mi darà penne in guisa di colomba,
ch'i' mi riposi, et levimi da terra?

 

I fear that, staggering beneath my load
of guilty deeds, ingrained perversity,
I might collapse before that Enemy
who’s waiting to waylay me on the road;

though once there came a good, good Friend and showed
me by His grace how I might struggle free,
and then withdrew and hid himself from me —
unworthy of the blessing He’d bestowed.

But still His voice re-echoes from above:
“All you that toil!  Come here to me, the gate
stands open, if the world would let you by!”

What gentle dispensation or what fate
shall give me wings to rise up like a dove
that I might know the peaceful, distant sky?