by David Young
139
The more I spread my wings, filled with desire
to join you, flock of friends, the more my fortune
entangles me with birdlime, checks my flight,
and holds me back or makes me go astray.
My heart, whom I send out against his will,
is always with you in that open valley
where land and sea embrace so tenderly;
I left him weeping there the other day.
I went off to the left while he went straight;
force carried me, while he was led by Love;
he toward Jerusalem and I toward Egypt.
But patience is a comfort in our sorrow;
for by long habit, now routine between us,
we never are together very long.
140
Love that lives and reigns in all my thoughts
and makes his seat of power in my heart,
sometimes appears in armor on my brow
and camps there, setting up his banner.
Then she who teaches us both love and patience
and wants my great desire, kindled hope,
to be reined in by reason, shame, and reverence,
grows angry at our boldness, hot within.
Which makes Love flee in terror to my heart;
abandoning all enterprise, he weeps
and shakes; hides there, and will come forth no more.
What can I do, when my lord is afraid,
except stay with him till the final hour?
For he dies well who dies while loving deeply.
141
The way a simple butterfly, in summer,
will sometimes fly, while looking for the light,
right into someone’s eyes, in its desire,
whereby it kills itself and causes pain:
so I run always toward my fated sun,
her eyes, from which such sweetness comes to me,
since Love cares nothing for the curb of reason
and judgment is quite vanquished by desire.
And I can see quite well how they avoid me,
and I well know that I will die from this,
because my strength cannot withstand the pain;
but oh, how sweetly Love does dazzle me
so that I wail some other’s pain, not mine,
and my blind soul consents to her own death.
142
Toward the sweet shadow of those lovely leaves
I ran, in flight from a relentless light
that burned me, even here, from the third Heaven;
snow was already fading from the hills
thanks to the loving breeze which starts the season,
and in the meadows grew green grass and branches.
The world had never seen such graceful branches
nor had the wind blown through such tender leaves
as showed themselves to me in that first season;
and thus it was, in fear of that hot light,
I chose for safety not the shade of hills
but of that tree most favored by high Heaven.
A laurel, then, protected me from Heaven,
and thus quite often, longing for its branches,
I’ve strayed through woods and wandered over hills;
but never since have I found trunk or leaves
so honored by the bright supernal light
that they did not change color with the season.
Therefore, more firmly, season after season,
in answer to a call I heard from Heaven
and guided by a clear and mild light,
I came back always, pledged to those same branches,
both when the earth is scattered with their leaves
and when the sun is greening all the hills.
Woods, rivers, rocks, and fields and trees and hills,
all the creation, must give way to seasons,
vanquished by time, and thus from these green leaves
I ask forgiveness that, beneath the heavens,
ever-changing, I sought to fly those branches
and their birdlime, soon as I saw the light.
It was so pleasing to me first, that light,
that full of joy I traveled across hills
in order to approach those lovely branches.
Now life grows short; now place and season
direct me to another path to Heaven
and show me fruit as well as flowers and leaves.
Some other love, new leaves, another light,
another climb toward Heaven, other hills
I seek (the season’s right), and other branches.
143
Now when I listen to you speak, so sweetly,
like Love himself, inspiring his disciples,
my passion, kindled, showers out such sparks
that they might even set the dead on fire;
that’s when my lovely lady comes to mind
and those few times when she was kind to me
before I woke again, not to the sound of bells
but to the noise of sighs, my own, of course.
I see her turn, her hair stirred by the wind,
and it’s as if she walks into my heart,
so beautiful, the one who keeps its key.
But my profound delight, which ties my tongue,
has not the means or strength to publish her
and show what she is like, enthroned within.
144
I never saw the sun come up so fair
when all the sky is free of mist and clouds,
nor after rain the great celestial arc
spread itself out through air with many colors,
as on that day when I took on my burden
and saw her lovely face transform itself
blazing before me (and my words here fail me)
as something that no mortal life could match.
I witnessed Love, moving her lovely eyes
so gently then that every other sight
has ever since seemed dark to me in contrast,
Sennuccio; I saw Love, saw the bow
he drew—my life was safe no more, and yet
it seems to long to look on him again.
145
Oh, put me where the sun kills flowers and grass
or where the ice and snow can overcome him;
or put me where his chariot’s mild and light,
where he’s restored or where he’s kept from us;
give me bad fortune or a run of luck,
put me in clear, sweet air, or dark and heavy;
set me in night, in daytime long or short,
in ripe maturity or early youth;
put me in Heaven, earth, or the abyss,
or mountain peaks or in low, swampy valleys;
make me move freely or transfix my limbs;
give me obscurity or lasting fame:
I’ll still be what I’ve been, live as I’ve lived,
I’ll still continue my trilustral sighing.
146
Oh, noble spirit warm with burning virtue
for whom I fill so many pages still,
oh, sole unblemished home of chastity,
strong tower built on your deep worth’s foundation,
oh, flame, oh, roses spread on a sweet drift
of living snow, whose mirror makes me better,
whose pleasure makes me raise my wings to fly
up to that lovely face, brighter than sunlight:
with your name, if my rhymes could reach so far
and still make sense, I would fill Thule and Bactria,
the Nile and the Don, Atlas, Olympus, Calpe.
Since I can’t take it to the world’s four corners,
I’ll say it to the lovely country which
the Apennines divide, the sea and Alps surround.
147
When my desire, which rides me hard and rules me
with two hot spurs as well
as a hard bit,
runs wild from time to time, outside the law,
as if to give my spirits what they want,
he finds a person who can read my brow
and see the fear and boldness of my heart;
and he sees Love, who comes to chasten him,
by flashing lightning from her angry eyes.
At that, like someone dodging thunderbolts
from angry Jove, he hastens to retreat,
showing how fear can quickly curb desire;
but cooling fires and shivering bouts of hope
that happen in my soul, so glass-transparent,
can sometimes brighten her sweet face again.
148
Not Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige, Tiber,
Tigris, Euphrates, Nile, Ganges, Indus, Hermus,
Danube, Don, Alpheus, Garonne that breaks the seas,
Timavus, Rhône, Rhine, Seine, Elbe, Loire, or Hebrus—
nor ivy, fir, pine, beech, or juniper—
could ease the fire that wearies my sad heart
like the fair stream that sometimes weeps with me
and the slim tree my verses celebrate.
I find this helps me during Love’s assaults,
which make me spend my time all dressed in armor
while life goes past me, taking giant leaps.
Then let this laurel grow on this fresh bank,
and may the man who planted it enjoy
sweet shade, soft waters, writing happy thoughts.
149
From time to time it seems her form and smile,
sweet and angelic, grow less harsh toward me,
the air of her fine face
clears like the sky, her happy eyes grow brighter.
These sighs, what are they doing with me now,
that used to come from sorrow
and once made very clear
the desperate, anguished nature of my life?
Happens I turn my face in her direction
to try to ease my heart,
it seems that Love is there
lending his aid and taking up my cause.
Yet I don’t think this war is going to end
or any tranquil peace come soothe my heart:
my passion burns the more
the more I’m tempted by my hopefulness.
150
“What are you doing, soul? What do you think?
Will we have peace? A truce? Or always war?”—
“I do not know our future, but I see
our torment doesn’t please her lovely eyes.”—
“What does that help, if with those eyes in summer
she turns us into ice, to fire in winter?”—
“Not she, but he who has control of them.”—
“What’s that to us, if she sees and is silent?”—
“Sometimes her tongue is silent while her heart
cries out, and though her face is dry and gay
she’s weeping where your gazing cannot reach.”—
“My mind is still not satisfied, and sorrow,
which gathers there, and stagnates, must burst out;
it’s hard for one who’s wretched to have hopes.”
151
No tired helmsman ever fled to port,
escaping angry waves and looming storm,
so readily as I flee my dark thoughts
to where my passion spurs me and inclines me;
no holy light has conquered mortal sight
more fully than has hers my own dim eyes
with rays sweet, fair, soft, black, and white, and mild
from where Love gilds and sharpens his fell arrows.
He isn’t blind; I see him, with his quiver,
naked except for where he’s veiled by shame;
a boy with wings, not painted but alive.
And he shows me what he conceals from many;
for bit by bit, within her lovely eyes,
I read the things I say or write of Love.
152
This humble wild thing, with tiger’s heart, or bear’s,
who comes in human form or angel’s shape,
spins me around too much, in tears and laughter,
in fear and hope, and makes my state uncertain.
If soon she doesn’t take me or release me,
but keeps me still reined in, between the two,
by that sweet poison running through my heart
and all my veins, Sir Love, my life is over.
My frail and weary strength cannot survive
among so many changes; all at once
it burns, it freezes, blushes and turns pale.
It hopes to flee, and thereby end its suffering,
like one who’s failing hour to hour; for he
is powerless who cannot even die.
153
Go forth, hot sighs, and reach to her cold heart,
break up the ice that fights against her pity;
if mortal prayers are listened to in Heaven,
let me have death or mercy for my torment.
Go forth, sweet thoughts, and speak of what exists
there where her lovely gaze cannot extend;
if still her cruelty offends, or my ill star,
why then, we’ll know we’re past all hope and error.
You both can say, although perhaps not fully,
that our condition is as dark and troubled
as hers is now quite peaceful and serene.
Be confident, and go, for Love comes with you;
my cruel fortune may yet terminate
if I can read good weather in my sun.
154
The stars, the heavens, and the elements
contested, using all their arts and care,
to make that living light where Nature and
the sun are mirrored; nothing matches it.
The work’s so high, so lovely and so new,
that mortal gaze cannot stay fixed on it
because her eyes, beyond all measure, can
rain down Love’s sweetness and his endless grace.
The air affected by their rays burns clear
with chastity, transfigured so completely
it’s quite beyond our reach of thought or word;
a place where base desires don’t exist,
just love of honor, virtue. When else, ever,
was low desire thus destroyed by beauty?
155
Caesar and Jove were never so much moved
(the one to wound, the other one to thunder)
that pity would not help put out their anger
and make them lay their usual weapons down:
my lady wept, and my lord wished me there
to see her and to hear her lamentations,
to fill me up with sorrow and desire,
to probe my very marrow and my bones.
That weeping Love depicted—no, he sculpted
so I could see it, and those words he wrote
upon a diamond set within my heart,
wherewith he comes back, often, with his keys,
strong and ingenious, and draws forth from it
the precious tears, the long and heavy sighs.
156
I saw on earth angelic attributes
and heavenly beauties unmatched in this world,
the memory both pleases me and pains me:
all else I see seems shadows, dreams, or smoke.
And I saw weeping those two lovely lights
that have a thousand times provoked the sun
to envy; and heard words mixed up with sighs
that would make mountains move and rivers stop.
Love, wisdom, valor, piety, and sorrow—
these made a sweeter music when she wept
than any to be heard throughout the world;
the heavens were so taken with the sound
that no leaf stirred upon a single branch
s
o great a sweetness filled the air and wind.
157
That always cruel and yet honored day
engraved its living image on my heart
in such a way no wit or skill can tell;
but I revisit it in memory.
Her gestures, marked with gracious pity, and
her bittersweet lamenting, which I heard,
made me unsure: a mortal or a goddess?
She made the sky grow clear and bright all round.
Her head was finest gold, her face warm snow,
her eyebrows ebony, her eyes two stars
where Love has never bent his bow in vain;
pearls and crimson roses formed the words
that gathered her exquisite sorrow up,
her sighs were flames, her tears were precious crystal.
158
No matter where I turn my weary eyes
as if to rest them from their endless longing,
I find that someone paints a lady’s portrait
as if to keep my passions fresh and green.
With graceful sorrow she breathes forth, it seems,
a deep compassion, wringing noble hearts,
and in my ears, beyond the sense of sight,
I seem to hear her speech and holy sighs.
Love and the truth were with me when I spoke
of beauties that were matchless in this world
and never yet encountered under stars;
nor had such sweet, devoted words been heard,
nor had the sun seen tears so beautiful
issuing forth from such attractive eyes.
159
What part of Heaven was it, what Idea,
where Nature found the pattern of that face,
that lovely visage that she brought down here
to show the capabilities up there?
What nymph beside a spring, what goddess in
what woods, has ever loosed such golden hair?
What heart has ever housed so many virtues
(although their sum is guilty of my death)?
They search in vain, who never saw her eyes,
if beautiful divinity’s their goal,
especially if they never saw them moving;
nor can they know how Love both kills and heals
if they have never listened to her sigh
or hearkened to the sound of her sweet laughter.
160
Both Love and I are full of sheer amazement,
like someone who has seen something fantastic,
watching her speak or laugh, gazing on her
who’s like herself but not like any other.
Out of the clear serene, her tranquil brow,
shine the two stars that guide me with their light
so much so that there is no other source
that might inflame someone to noble love.
It’s such a miracle when on the grass
she blossoms like a flower, or when she
presses her bosom to a green tree’s branch!
