Authors: Mark Musa
Petrarch (14 page)
che per usanza a lagrimar gli appella;
quando mia speme già condutta al verde
giunse nel cor non per l’usata via,
che ’l sonno tenea chiusa e ’l dolor molle—
quanto cangiata, oimè, da quel di pria!—
et parea dir: “Perché tuo valor perde?
Veder quest’occhi ancor non ti si tolle.”
The closer that I come to
the last day
that seems to shorten human misery
the more I see time
running swift and light
and all
my hope in him
deceived and vain.
I tell my thoughts: “
We won’t talk much of love
for very long now, for this hard and heavy
earthly burden, like freshly fallen snow
is melting, and at last we shall know peace,
“since with the weight there also
falls that hope
which made us go on raving for so long:
the laughter and the tears and fears and anger;
“
then clearly we shall see
how often here
one chases after things that are uncertain
and how so often one must sigh in vain.”
The
star of love
already was aglow
thoughout the East, and wheeling in the North,
its rays shining and lovely,
was the other
star known to fill Juno with jealousy;
the poor old woman
, barefoot and undressed,
has just got up to spin and wake the coals,
and
piercing lovers
was that time of day
which always seems to summon them to tears,
when hope of mine,
by now cut to the quick
,
filled in my heart,
not by the usual way
,
for sleeping kept that closed and grief kept wet.
How changed
, alas, from what she once had been!
She seemed to say: “Why do you lose your courage?
To see these eyes is
not denied you yet
.”
Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio
che t’infiammava a le tesaliche onde,
et se non ài l’amate chiome bionde,
volgendo gli anni, già poste in oblio,
dal pigro gelo et dal tempo aspro et rio
che dura quanto ’l tuo viso s’asconde
difendi or l’onorata et sacra fronde
ove tu prima et poi fu’ invescato io,
et per vertù de l’amorosa speme
che ti sostenne ne la vita acerba,
di queste impression l’aere disgombra;
sì vedrem poi per meraviglia inseme
seder la donna nostra sopra l’erba
et far de la sue braccia a se stessa ombra.
Solo et pensoso i più deserti campi
vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti,
et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
ove vestigio uman la rena stampi.
Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi
dal manifesto accorger de le genti,
perché negli atti d’allegrezza spenti
di fuor si legge com’ io dentro avampi.
Sì ch’ io mi credo omai che monti et piagge
et fiumi et selve sappian di che tempre
sia la mia vita, ch’ è celata altrui;
ma pur sì aspre vie né sì selvagge
cercar non so ch’ Amor non venga sempre
ragionando con meco, et io con lui.
Apollo,
if the lovely wish still lives
that made you burn on
Thessalian wave
,
and if those blond and cherished locks of hers
you have not with the passing years forgotten,
from
lazy frost
and weather harsh and cruel
which lasts as long as you
conceal your face
,
now come defend the
honored, sacred leaf
by which you first and then I, too,
was snared
;
and then by virtue of the amorous hope
that kept you going through
your bitter life
,
make clear
the atmosphere of such impression;
then we shall see together, wondrously,
our lady sitting there upon the grass,
her arms casting their shade
around herself.
Alone and deep in thought
I measure out
the most deserted fields,
with slow, late steps
,
with eyes intent to flee whatever sign
of human footprint
left within the sand
.
I find no other shield
for my protection
against the knowing glances of mankind,
for in my bearing
all bereft of joy
one sees from outside how I burn within.
So now, I think, only the plains and mountains,
the rivers and the forests know the kind
of life I lead, the one concealed from all.
And still, I never seem to find
a path
too harsh, too wild for Love to always join
me and
to speak to me
, and I to him!
S’ io credesse per morte essere scarco
del pensiero amoroso che m’atterra,
colle mie mani avrei già posto in terra
queste membra noiose et quello incarco;
ma perch’ io temo che sarebbe un varco
di pianto in pianto et d’una in altra guerra,
di qua dal passo ancor che mi si serra
mezzo rimango, lasso, et mezzo il varco.
Tempo ben fora omai d’avere spinto
l’ultimo stral la dispietata
cord
a
ne l’altrui sangue già bagnato et tinto,
et io ne prego Amore, et quella sorda
che mi lassò de’ suoi color depinto
et di chiamarmi a sé non le ricorda.
Sì è debile il filo a cui s’attene
la gravosa mia vita
che s’ altri non l’aita
ella fia tosto di suo corso a riva,
però che dopo l’empia dipartita
che dal dolce mio bene
feci, sol una spene
è stato in fin a qui cagion ch’ io viva,
dicendo: “Perché priva
sia de l’amata vista,
mantienti, anima trista;
che sai s’ a miglior tempo anco ritorni
et a più lieti giorni,
o se ’l perduto ben mai si racquista?”
Questa speranza mi sostenne un tempo;
or vien mancando, et troppo in lei m’attempo.
If I thought that by death I would be lightened
of this amorous care that weighs me down,
by now, by my own hand I would have buried
these
loathsome limbs
of mine and that weight too;
but since I fear that it would be
a passage
from grief to grief, from one war to another,
on this side of the pass
still closed to me
I half remain (oh grief) and
half cross over
.
And it is high time that the merciless cord
release now from its bow the final arrow,
already wet and
stained with others’ blood
;
and
I beg Love
for this and that deaf one
who left me painted shades
of her own color
and
who forgets
to call me to herself.
So fragile is the thread on which there hangs
this heavy life of mine
it will have soon run to its journey’s end,
Because once I had taken my cruel leave
from that sweet good of mine,
only a single hope
allows me
until now
to live my life
saying: “Though you’re deprived
of the beloved sight,
hold on to life, sad soul;
who knows, you may return to better times
and to more happy days,
or even regain all of the good you lost?”
This hope sustained me once upon a time,
now it declines and I grow old in it.
Il tempo passa et l’ore son sì pronte
a fornire il viaggio,
ch’ assai spazio non aggio
pur a pensar com’ io corro a la morte;
a pena spunta in oriente un raggio
di sol, ch’ a l’altro monte
de l’adverso orizonte
giunto il vedrai per vie lunghe et distorte.
Le vite son sì corte,
sì gravi i corpi et frali
degli uomini mortali,
che quando io mi ritrovo dal bel viso
cotanto esser diviso,
col desio non possendo mover l’ali,
poco m’avanza del conforto usato,
né so quant’ io mi viva in questo stato.
Ogni loco m’atrista ov’ io non veggio
quei begli occhi soavi
che portaron le chiavi
de’ miei dolci pensier mentre a Dio piacque,
et perché ’l duro esilio più m’aggravi,
s’ io dormo o vado o seggio
altro giamai non cheggio,
et ciò ch’ i’ vidi dopo lor mi spiacque.
Quante montagne et acque,
quanto mar, quanti fiumi
m’ascondon que’ duo lumi
che quasi un bel sereno a mezzo ’l die
fer le tenebre mie
a ciò che ’l rimembrar più mi consumi,
et quanto era mia vita allor gioiosa
m’insegni la presente aspra et noiosa.
Lasso, se ragionando si rinfresca
quell’ardente desio
che nacque il giorno ch’ io
lassai di me la miglior parte a dietro,
et s’ amor se ne va per lungo oblio,
chi mi conduce a l’esca
onde ’l mio dolor cresca,
et perché pria tacendo non m’impetro?
Time flies and every hour is so quick
that there’s not time enough
for me to think of
how I race to death
;
as soon as you see in the East a ray
of sun you see it reach
the opposite horizon
arrived along its
long and coiling path
.
So short is every life,
so heavy and so frail
mankind’s mortal body,
that when I find myself from that sweet face
so greatly separated,
without power
to fly with my desire,
little is left me of my usual comfort,
nor do I know how long I’ll live like this.
I grieve in every place I cannot see
those lovely, gracious eyes
that carried off
the keys
of my sweet thoughts as long as it pleased God,
and so that my hard exile be more painful,
when sleeping, walking, sitting
I beg for nothing else,
and
having seen them
, nothing gives me pleasure.
How many hills and brooks,
how many seas and streams
hide those two lights from me
that like the clarity of noonday skies
would
make all of my darkness
,
so that
remembering may consume me more
and that from my bitter and burdened present
I may learn how my life was joyous then.
Alas, if talking this way
can renew
that ardent wish of mine
born on the day that I
had left behind me the best part of me,
and if with long forgetfulness love fades,
who leads me to the bait
so that my grief grows greater?
Why not choose
silence first and turn to stone?
Certo, cristallo o vetro
non mostrò mai di fore
nascosto altro colore
che l’aima sconsolata assai non mostri
più chiari i pensier nostri
et la fera dolcezza ch’ è nel core
per gli occhi, che di sempre pianger vaghi
cercan di et notte pur chi glie n’appaghi.
Novo piacer che ne gli umani ingegni
spesse volte si trova,
d’amar qual cosa nova
più folta schiera di sospiri accoglia!
Et io son un di quei che ’l pianger giova,
et par ben ch’ io m’ingegni
che di lagrime pregni
sien gli occhi miei, sì come ’l cor di doglia.
Et perché a ciò m’invoglia
ragionar de’ begli occhi
né cosa è che mi tocchi
o sentir mi si faccia così a dentro,
corro spesso et rientro
colà donde più largo il duol trabocchi
et sien col cor punite ambe le luci
ch’ a la strada d’Amor mi furon duci.
Le treccie d’or che devrien fare il sole
d’invidia molta ir pieno,
e ’l bel guardo sereno
ove i raggi d’Amor sì caldi sono,
che mi fanno anzi tempo venir meno,
et l’accorte parole
rade nel mondo, o sole,
che mi fer già di sé cortese dono
mi son tolte, et perdono
più lieve ogni altra offesa
che l’essermi contesa
quella benigna angelica salute
che ’l mio cor a vertute
destar solea con una voglia accesa,
tal ch’ io non penso udir cosa giamai
che mi conforte ad altro ch’ a trar guai.
For certain, glass or crystal
never revealed more clearly
its inside, hidden color
than my disconsolate soul makes manifest
the thoughts inside of me
and all the
savage sweetness
in the heart
seen through the eyes, ready always to weep,
that night and day seek her alone who calms them.
How strange the pleasure that is often found
within the human mind
to love any strange thing
that brings with it the thickest swarm of sighs!
And I am one of those who
thrives on weeping
,
who seems to put his mind
to keeping full of tears
my eyes, just as my heart is full of sorrow.
Since speaking of those eyes
involves me in this state
(nothing touches me more
or moves me to the depths of my insides),
therein so that my grief may overflow
and both my eyes be punished with my heart
because
they were my guides
along Love’s road.
The golden hair
that ought to make the sun
revolve in all its envy,