by David Young
in this fatiguing life, so low and vile.
And thus the spirit’s failing, hour by hour,
within that graceful body that has been
the mirror and the mood of loveliness;
unless, alas, Pity can rein in Death,
I see how vain the state of hope has grown
on which I have been trying to survive.
185
The golden feathers that surround her white
and noble throat array this artless phoenix
with such a precious necklace that each heart
is sweetened by it, though my own’s consumed;
they make a kind of natural diadem
that lights the air all round; Love’s soundless flint
draws out of it a subtle, liquid fire
that burns me even in the coldest frost.
A scarlet dress, hemmed with cerulean
and scattered roses, veils her lovely shoulders:
new garment for a beauty without equal!
Fame says the phoenix lives in distant mountains
among the spicy reaches of Arabia,
but this one’s cruising proudly through our skies.
186
If Homer and then Virgil had but seen
that sun my eyes are able to enjoy,
they would have bent their skill to make her famous,
mingling their separate styles into one:
that would enrage Aeneas; and Achilles,
Ulysses, all the demigods make sad;
and he who ruled the world so well for six
and fifty years, and whom Aegisthus killed.
That ancient flower of virtue and of arms,
how similar his star was to this new one
that now embodies chastity and beauty!
Ennius praised him with a clumsy song,
and I praise her; oh, may I not displease,
and may she not despise my celebration!
187
When Alexander saw the famous tomb
of fierce Achilles, we are told he sighed:
“Oh, lucky man, who found so clear a trumpet
to write so splendidly of your great deeds!”
But this dove, pure and white, whose living equal
has not existed ever in this world,
is barely echoed in my feeble style.
That’s how our destinies are various;
for she deserves an Orpheus or Homer
or homage from the shepherd Mantua loves,
she’s worth their singing, always, just of her;
a crooked star, determining her fate,
made her unlucky: to have one adore her
who sings her praise, but mars it by his crudeness.
188
Life-giving sun, you loved that branch at first
which I love now: it’s she who thrives alone
in her sweet place, who has no equal since
Adam first saw his lovely curse, and ours.
Let’s stay and gaze at her, I beg of you,
oh, sun, for you still run away and darken
the hillsides all around, take out the day,
and take from me what I desire most.
The shadow growing from that sloping hill
there where my gentle fire glows and sparks,
where this great laurel was a little sapling,
grows longer as I speak, steals from my eyes
the happy sight of that most blessed place
there where my heart is dwelling with his lady.
189
My galley, loaded with forgetfulness,
rolls through rough seas, at midnight, during winter,
aiming between Charybdis and sharp Scylla;
my lord, ah no, my foe, sits at the tiller;
each oar is wielded by a quick, mad thought
that seems to scorn the storm and what it means;
an endless wind of moisture, of deep sighs,
of hopes and passions, rips the sail in half;
tears in a steady downpour, mists of hate,
are loosening and soaking all the ropes,
ropes made of ignorance, tangled up with error.
The two sweet stars I steer by are obscured;
reason and skill are dead amid the waves;
and I don’t think I’ll ever see the port.
190
A white doe on green grass appeared to me;
she had gold horns and stood between two rivers,
beneath a laurel, in a place I knew,
at dawn and in a season still unripe.
Her look was sweet and proud, so that I left
all other tasks to follow her, just like
a miser seeking out a treasure, who
sweetens the pain of labor with delight.
Around her lovely neck: “Let no one touch me,”
the words spelled out in diamonds and topaz.
“It pleased my Caesar to create me free.”
Already it was noon. My eyes were weary
but hadn’t gazed their fill when suddenly
I fell into the water and she vanished.
191
Just as eternal life means seeing God
and wanting nothing else (nor could one want to),
so, Lady, seeing you can make me happy
in this my very brief and fragile life.
Nor have I ever seen you lovelier
than you are at this hour, if my eye
tells my heart truly, hour of blessed thoughts,
surpassing every hope and all desire!
If this would last I wouldn’t ask for more,
for if some beings live on odors, as
they tell and it’s believed, and some on fire,
and some on water, with their touch and taste
thriving somehow on things that lack all sweetness,
why shouldn’t I be nourished seeing you?
192
Love, let us pause to contemplate our glory
and see things high and strange, past Nature.
See sweetness that rains down upon her here,
see light that shows us Heaven come to earth;
see how much skill has gilded and made pearly
and ruddy-hued that body, surely matchless,
which moves sweet feet and lively eyes throughout
the shady cloister of these lovely hills!
Green grass and flowers of a thousand colors
scattered beneath that black and ancient oak
entreat her lovely foot to step on them;
the sky’s aswarm with sparks, with shining fire,
and seems to be rejoicing everywhere
at being made so clear by eyes so fair.
193
I feed my mind upon a food so noble
I don’t need Jove’s ambrosia or nectar;
for simply gazing makes oblivion rain
into my soul; all other sweetness: Lethe.
I hear words spoken, write them in my heart
so I can look them up again and sigh,
transported by Love’s hand I know not where,
tasting a double sweetness in one face;
for that voice, pleasing even Heaven, utters
words so exquisite, words so enchanting,
who hasn’t heard it never could conceive it.
Together then, in one hand, is collected
all that our Art, our Wit, Nature, and Heaven
could hope to find accomplished in this life.
194
This noble breeze that clears the hills again,
arousing flowers in the shady woods:
I recognize from its soft breath the one
on whose account I labor and grow famous.
To find someplace my weary heart can rest
I flee my sweet and native Tuscan air;
to bring some light to dark and torpid thoughts
I seek and hope to see today my sun,
in whom I find so many sweetn
esses
that Love leads me by force to her again,
then dazzles me and makes it hard to flee.
To get away I would need wings, not armor;
but Heaven decrees that this light shall destroy me,
torment me at a distance, burn close up.
195
My face and hair are changing, day by day,
but that can’t make me shun the baited hook
or keep me from the green and birdlimed branches
of that same tree that knows not sun or frost.
The sea will lose all water, sky all stars,
before I lose my fear and my desire
for her good shade, lose both the love and hate
for this love-wound that I conceal so badly.
I do not hope to put away my labors
till I’m deboned, demuscled, and defleshed,
or else my enemy takes pity on me.
All other things impossible could happen
before another she, or Death, might heal
the wound her eyes first made upon my heart.
196
The tranquil breeze that passes, murmuring,
through verdant foliage, blows across my brow
and calls me to remember that first time
when Love gave me the deep, sweet wounds I bear
and makes me see the lovely face she hides,
and still withholds from jealousy or anger;
her golden hair, braided with gems and pearls,
or loosened, and more blond than burnished gold,
which she shook free so sweetly and then gathered
with such a charming gesture that my mind
still trembles when I think of it again.
Time braided up that hair in tighter knots
and bound my heart as well, so strong a cord
that death alone can manage to untie it.
197
The heavenly breeze that sighs in that green laurel
where Love once struck Apollo in his side,
has placed about my neck a yoke so sweet
that I regain my liberty too late,
controlling me the way Medusa ruled
that Moorish giant whom she turned to flint;
I can’t shake loose that lovely knot that rivals
the sun itself, as well as gold and amber:
I mean that hair of hers, the curled blond snare
that softly ties my soul and binds it tight,
leaving it no armor but humility.
Her very shadow turns my heart to ice,
blanching my face with fear, but it’s her eyes
that have the power to harden both to marble.
198
The soft breeze spreads and vibrates in the sunlight
the gold that Love is spinning here by hand;
using her lovely eyes and gorgeous hair
he binds my weary heart, sifts my light spirits.
I have no marrow in my bones, or blood
within my veins, that does not tremble if
I come into her presence, she who weighs
my life and death upon a fragile scale;
I see those two lights burning that engulf me,
I see those knots that bind me with their shine
now on the right-hand shoulder, now the left.
I can’t explain what I don’t understand,
my intellect is snuffed by two such lights,
oppressed and wearied by such steady sweetness.
199
Oh, lovely hand that grasps my heart, enclosing
my life entire in a little space,
oh, hand where Heaven and Nature have put all
their art and labor, to enhance their glory,
soft fingers like five Oriental pearls,
bitter and harmful only to my wound,
quite gentle otherwise and just now naked,
which Love allows as if to make me rich.
White, delicate, and precious little glove,
that covered flawless ivory and fresh roses,
who in the world’s seen spoils sweet as these?
I wish I had a part of that fine veil!
Oh, fickleness of human life and fate,
that would be theft; she’ll come and take it back.
200
Not just that single naked hand
that now reclothes itself, to my deep sorrow,
the other too, and those two arms, are quick
to squeeze and wring my timid, humble heart.
Love sets a thousand snares, and none in vain,
among these beautiful new virtuous forms
that so adorn her vesture, high and heavenly,
that human wit or style can add nothing:
her tranquil eyes, her starry brows, her fine
angelic mouth, a mouth that’s full of pearls
as well as blooming roses and sweet words
that make one shake with wonder, marveling,
and then her forehead and exquisite hair,
at noon in summer vanquishing the sun.
201
My luck, along with Love, had blessed me so
with an embroidery of gold and silk,
I’d almost reached the limits of my joy
by saying to myself, “Just think who wore this!”
And now I cannot bring that day to mind
when I grew rich and poor all in one moment,
without becoming filled with rage and sorrow,
divided evenly by scorn and shame
that I did not secure my noble spoils
when that was needful, or was not more steady
against the force of just one little angel,
or that I didn’t flee, wings on my feet,
and take my vengeance on at least that hand
that has provoked so many tears from me.
202
From ice that’s clear, alive, and smooth and shining
the flame appears that kindles me and melts me,
and it so dries and drains my heart and veins
that I decline, invisibly, and perish.
Death has already raised his arm to strike
and he pursues my life, which flees from him,
as angry heavens thunder, lions roar,
and I am trembling, silent, filled with fear.
Pity, allied with Love, could still arrive
to save me; they could make a double column
between my weary soul and Death’s fell blow;
but I don’t think it will, nor do I see it
there on her face, my enemy and mistress;
I don’t blame her, I blame my heavy fortune.
203
Alas, I burn, and no one will believe me;
or everyone believes me except her,
the one, of all, whom I would have believe
and who does not, although she watches it.
Infinite beauty with so little faith,
do you not see my heart’s truth in my eyes?
My star is ranged against me or I’d surely
find mercy at the fountainhead of pity.
This ardor, which you care so little for,
and all your praises in my well-known verses,
might start a blaze within a thousand hearts;
for in my thoughts I see, oh, my sweet fire,
a tongue grown cold in death, two eyes shut down,
and embers burning on, long after us.
204
You, Soul, who see so many different things
and hear and read and speak and write and think,
and you, my roving eyes, and other senses,
who bring her holy words into my heart:
how strongly do you wish that you had come
later or sooner to this road we travel
if it would mean you’d miss those lovely lights
or trace the footprints of those well-loved feet?
Now, since we have clear light
and such good signs
we must not lose our way in that brief journey
which may allow us an eternal dwelling:
push on toward Heaven, then, oh, tired heart,
pass through the clouds and mist of her disdain,
and trace her chaste steps toward a light divine.
205
Sweet angers, sweet disdains, sweet peace accords,
sweet ill, sweet suffering, sweet weight of pain,
sweet speech, conversing, sweetly understood,
and now a soothing breeze and now sweet fire!
Soul, don’t complain of this, be still and patient,
and temper the sweet bitterness that’s harmed us
with all the honor, sweet, in loving her,
to whom I said: “It’s you alone who please me.”
Perhaps someday some person will remark,
sighing, and colored with sweet jealousy:
“This man endured much pain for noble love.”
Another adds: “Oh, Fortune, foe of eyes!
Why did I never get a chance to see her?
Why couldn’t she live later or I sooner?”
206
If I said that, then may the one whose love
I live by and would die without despise me;
if I said that, my days be sad and numbered,
my soul the servant of some vile power;
if I said that, may stars be armed against me,
and my companions be
Terror and Jealousy,
and let my enemy
be crueler still and yet more beautiful!
If I said that, then let Love use up all
his golden arrows on me, lead on her;
if I said that, let earth, sky, men, and gods
reproach me while she grows more pitiless;
if I said that, let her use her dark torch
to lead me straight to death,
stay just that way she is,
and never may she show
some kindness to me in her words or deeds!
If I said that, let me go down a road
that’s short and rough and full of things I hate;
if I said that, let flames of passion grow
in me to match the growing ice in her;
if I said that, may my eyes never see
the clear sun, or his sister,
no lady, or a maiden,
but just the kind of storm
the Pharaoh saw when he pursued the Hebrews!
If I said that, let pity for me die
and courtesy, with all the sighs I’ve breathed;
if I said that, may she speak just as harshly
as she was tender on the day she won me;
if I said that, let me disgust her, her
whom I would love, alone,
though locked in some dark cell
from day of weaning till
my day of death—which I might engineer!
But if I didn’t say it, may she soften,
the one who opened up my youthful heart
