The Poetry of Petrarch

by David Young

  we’re sad because we lack her company now,

  which jealousy and envy have removed,

  who see another’s good as their detraction.”

  “Who can curb lovers? Who can give them laws?”

  “No one curbs souls. The body? Anger, sourness;

  she proves this now, and so do we sometimes;

  but one can read the heart upon the brow,

  and thus it was we saw her beauty darkened

  and all bedewed with tears her lovely eyes.”

  223

  Sun bathes his golden chariot in the sea

  and darkens all our air, and my mind too,

  and I begin an anguished, bitter night

  together with the stars, the moon, the sky;

  and then I tell my troubles, one by one,

  to one who doesn’t listen, and I quarrel

  with my blind fortune, with the world at large,

  with Love, and with my lady, and myself.

  Sleep’s banished and there’s no repose at all,

  just sighs and lamentations until dawn,

  and tears my soul sends outward to my eyes.

  Dawn comes and lights the darkened air, not me;

  the sun that burns my heart and yet delights it,

  only that sun can make my torment sweet.

  224

  If faithfulness in love, a heart sincere,

  a sweet devotion and a courteous longing,

  chaste passions kindled in a noble fire,

  long roaming lost in a blind labyrinth,

  if having thoughts depicted on my brow

  or barely understood in stumbling words,

  or broken off by fear or simple shame,

  a pallor like the violet’s, tinted lovewise,

  if loving someone more than my own self,

  if sighing constantly and always weeping

  nourished by anger, sorrow, and despair,

  if burning far away and freezing near,

  if these are ways that I let Love distract me,

  the blame is yours, my lady, mine the loss.

  225

  Twelve ladies chastely resting at their ease,

  or say twelve stars, and in their midst a sun,

  I saw alone and happy in a boat

  whose like, I think, had never plowed the waves;

  nor did its like take Jason, I believe,

  to find that fleece that people want to wear,

  or hold that shepherd Troy’s still grieving for,

  the two for whom the world made such a fuss.

  I saw them next in a triumphal chariot;

  my Laura, with her holy, modest manner,

  was seated at one side and sweetly singing:

  these were not human things, no mortal vision.

  Happy Automedon, and lucky Tiphys,

  who got to drive and steer such graceful people!

  226

  No sparrow on a roof was as alone

  as I am now, no beast in any forest,

  her lovely face withheld, when I don’t know

  another sun, or care for other sights.

  To weep forever is my greatest joy,

  while laughter’s pain, all food is gall and poison,

  night is hard work, a clear sky’s dark to me,

  and bed’s a kind of rugged battlefield.

  They say that sleep resembles death; it’s true,

  death’s kindred acts to liberate the heart

  from all the sweet concerns that keep it living.

  Oh, fertile, happy country, you alone,

  among your flowering banks and shaded meadows,

  possess what I’d possess, my dearest treasure.

  227

  You breezes that surround those curling tresses,

  moving among them, softly moved by them,

  you scatter that sweet gold and then again

  you gather it and wreathe it in fair knots:

  you live in eyes from which the wasps of love

  so sting me that I feel it even here

  and weep and stagger, seeking for my treasure,

  like any animal that shies and stumbles;

  for first I think I’ve found her, then I learn

  I’m far away; I’m solaced, then dejected,

  see what I wish for, then I see the truth.

  Oh, happy air, go live with that sweet ray,

  and as for you, clear running stream, why can’t

  we trade our paths and courses, you and I?

  228

  Love opened my left side with his right hand,

  and there within my very heart he planted

  a laurel tree so green that its rich hue

  exceeds the color of all emeralds.

  With pen for plow, with labored sighs for wind,

  with tears from my own eyes a gentle rain,

  this tree has flourished so that its perfume

  reaches to Heaven, feat unparalleled.

  Honor and fame, virtue and great charm,

  chaste beauty dressed in a celestial garb,

  these are the roots of this most noble plant.

  It’s in my breast wherever I may go,

  a happy burden, and with my chaste prayers

  I worship it as one more holy thing.

  229

  I sang and now I weep; and from my weeping

  take no less sweetness than I took from singing,

  because my senses, still in love with heights,

  are focused on the cause, not the effects.

  Therefore I manage, in an equal measure,

  mildness and harshness both, cruel gestures

  and humble courtesy; I’m not weighed down,

  and scorn itself can’t pierce my tempered armor.

  Let Love and Fortune, world and lady mine,

  go right on treating me the way they do;

  I don’t think they can take away my joy;

  whether I die or live or pine away,

  there is no nobler state beneath the moon,

  so sweet the plant that has this bitter root.

  230

  I wept and now I sing, because that sun

  does not withhold her light from these my eyes

  and I can see chaste Love both well and truly,

  and revel in his power and sacred ways;

  thus he has generated such a flood of tears

  to shorten life’s accustomed span that I

  cannot be rescued here by wing or feather,

  much less by bridge or ford, by oar or sail.

  My weeping has a source so deep and wide,

  the shore itself so distant from my sight,

  that I can hardly compass it in thought.

  Now pity sends me back, not palm or laurel,

  but peaceful olive, and the weather clears

  and dries my tears and bids me go on living.

  231

  I lived quite well contented with my fate,

  without a tear or any sort of envy;

  if other lovers have a better fortune,

  their thousand joys aren’t worth one pain of mine.

  But now those lovely eyes, for which I won’t

  repent my sorrows nor can wish them less,

  are covered by a cloud so dark and heavy

  that my life’s sun is almost quenched and lost.

  Oh, Nature, cruel compassionate mother,

  so potent and with such conflicting urges,

  why make things charming but unmake them too?

  All powers come from one great living fountain;

  but how can You, oh, highest Father, let

  another rob us of Your dearest gift?

  232

  Anger defeated victorious Alexander,

  and made him thus a lesser man than Philip.

  What good that Pyrgoteles and Lysippus

  alone could sculpt him, or Apelles paint him?

  Anger drove Tydeus to such a rage

  that as he died he gn
awed on Menalippus;

  anger made Sulla not just bleary but

  completely blind, then ultimately killed him.

  Valentinianus knows that anger

  leads to such punishments, and so does Ajax,

  who killed a host of others, then himself.

  Anger’s a temporary madness, or

  a long one if unchecked, that takes its subject

  to certain shame and sometimes on to death.

  233

  What fortune was it that from those two eyes,

  the loveliest that live, one sent a message,

  when they were darkened and disturbed by pain,

  that made my own eyes dark and very sick!

  I had come back, still hungering to see

  the person I care most for in this world;

  Heaven and Love had grown less cruel to me

  showing more kindness than they had before;

  for from my lady’s eye, the right one, or

  from her right sun, there came to my right eye

  the illness that delights and does not pain;

  as if it had both intellect and wings,

  it hit me like a star across the heavens,

  and Nature and true Pity held their course.

  234

  Oh, little room that used to be a haven

  from those ferocious daily storms of mine:

  now you’re a fountain of nocturnal tears

  that I keep hidden, shamed, throughout the day.

  Oh, little bed that used to be a rest

  and comfort to my pain, with what sad urns

  does Love come bathing you, those ivory hands

  cruel just to me, and with such injustice.

  I shun my refuge and my rest, and now

  I even shun myself and all the thoughts

  that used to take me with them in their flight;

  I find I seek the crowd (who would have thought it?)

  as refuge, though inimical and hateful:

  it’s all from fear of being with myself.

  235

  Oh, woe, Love takes me where I do not wish

  to go, beyond the bounds of what’s permitted;

  that’s how I come to vex her, this great monarch

  who is enthroned forever in my heart.

  No careful pilot ever steered a ship,

  full of rich merchandise, more carefully

  to keep it off the rocks, than I do this,

  my leaky bark, steered clear of her harsh pride,

  but tears, a lashing rain, and fierce wind-sighs

  have driven it almost aground in seas

  teeming with dreadful night and bitter winter

  and made it thus vex others, bringing woe

  and torment to itself, half-swamped by waves

  drifting along without its sails or rudder.

  236

  Love, I do wrong and see that I do wrong

  but act still like a man whose breast is burning;

  my pain increases and my reason fails:

  it’s almost overcome by my distresses.

  I used to curb my hot desire because

  I didn’t want to cloud her lovely face;

  but now I can’t: you’ve seized the reins from me

  and in its hopelessness my soul’s grown bold.

  Thus if my soul exceeds her normal limit,

  you’re doing it, you so arouse and heat her

  that she’ll do anything to get salvation,

  and even more, attain those heavenly gifts

  my lady owns; please make my lady see

  and then forgive herself for my trespasses.

  237

  The sea has fewer fish among its waves,

  and up beyond the circle of the moon

  as many stars are not seen in the night,

  nor do as many birds live in the woods,

  or fields have so much grass, or any meadow,

  as I have cares at heart, come every evening.

  From day to day I hope it’s my last evening

  that separates my earth from its own waves

  and lets me find my rest beneath some meadow:

  such woes as mine no man below the moon

  has ever suffered; they know this, the woods

  that I go searching through by day and night.

  I do not think I’ve had a peaceful night

  but I’ve run wild by morning and by evening

  since Love made me a dweller in the woods.

  Before I rest, the sea will lose its waves,

  the sun will get his brightness from the moon,

  and April’s blooms will die in every meadow.

  I wander, self-consumed, meadow to meadow,

  careworn by day, and then I weep at night;

  I am about as stable as the moon.

  As soon as I perceive the gloom of evening,

  sighs issue from my breast, from my eyes waves

  that flood the grass and then uproot the woods.

  I find all cities hateful, love the woods

  which house my cares as I go through the meadow

  and pour my thoughts out, murmuring like waves,

  throughout the peaceful silence of the night:

  because of this I wait all day for evening,

  when sun departs and makes way for the moon.

  I wish that, with the lover of the moon,

  I too had gone to sleep in some green woods

  and she who, before vespers, brings me evening

  with Love and with the moon upon the meadow

  might come alone to stay with me one night,

  while day and sunlight stay beneath the waves!

  Beside harsh waves and by the moon’s pale light,

  song born at night and raised amid the woods,

  may you be in lush meadows by the evening.

  238

  A royal nature, intellect angelic,

  bright soul, a ready gaze, eyes of a lynx,

  a rapid foresight, elevated thoughts

  well worthy of their dwelling in his breast.

  A number of fine ladies had been chosen

  to help adorn this high and festive day,

  and his sound judgment quickly saw among them

  the face most perfect in that crowd of beauties.

  He used his hand to wave aside the others,

  all greater in their age or in their fortune,

  and kindly summoned that one to his side.

  He kissed her eyes and brow with such glad kindness

  that every lady there was filled with joy,

  and I with envy for his strange, sweet action.

  239

  Sometime near dawn there rises a sweet aura,

  enlivening the springtime, opening flowers,

  and all the small birds then begin their verses;

  I feel my thoughts come sweetly in my soul

  stirred by the one who holds them in his power,

  and then begin again to sound my notes.

  If I could temper into such soft notes

  the sighs I make, that they would sweeten Laura,

  and reason with this person and her power!

  Winter, I think, will be a time of flowers

  before love blossoms in that noble soul

  that never seems to care for rhymes or verses.

  How many tears, alas, how many verses,

  have I dispersed along the way, what notes

  have I attempted to subdue her soul!

  She stands like some harsh mountain, blocks the aura

  that seems as though it moves the leaves and flowers

  but cannot work against a stronger power.

  Love likes to vanquish men and gods with power,

  as you can read about in tales and verses,

  and as I found when buds were turning flowers;

  neither my lord, Sir Love, nor his good notes,

  nor my own tears or prayers can teach this Laura

  to free fr
om life or torments my sad soul.

  In this last need, oh, miserable soul,

  summon your wit and strength and all your power,

  while you still have this breath of life, this aura;

  there’s nothing that’s beyond the reach of verses,

  since they can charm a serpent with their notes

  and decorate the frost with newborn flowers.

  The meadows laugh right now with grass and flowers:

  how could it be that her angelic soul

  could fail to hear the sound of amorous notes?

  Well, maybe Fortune has a greater power,

  and soul and I will weep and sing our verses

  like some lame ox that thinks to chase an aura.

  I’m trying to net the aura, grow flowers in ice,

  wooing in verses a deaf and rigid soul

  indifferent to Love’s power and his notes.

  240

  I’ve begged Love before, and beg him again,

  to sway you to pardon me—oh, my sweet pain,

  my bitter joy—when faithfulness to you

  pulls me away, I know, from virtue’s path.

  I can’t deny, my lady, and don’t try,

  that Reason, sovereign over each good soul,

  is overmastered by Desire, who leads

  headlong in strange directions I must follow.

  You, with that heart that Heaven brightens,

  a mind so clear, virtue as lofty as

  ever rained down from a propitious star,

  ought tenderly to say, and with no scorn,

  “What can he do? What else? My face consumes him.

  Why is he lustful? Why am I beautiful?”

  241

  That dreadful lord whom we can’t flee or hide from,

  from whom there is no adequate defense,

  buried his arrow in me, burning love-bolt,

  and set my mind on fire with sweet pleasure;

  and then to that first blow, itself quite amply

  painful and deadly, he gave another

  to aggravate his work, a dart of pity

  that pierced my heart as well, on both sides wounded.

  One wound is burning; smoke and flames pour forth.

  The other distills tears that fill my eyes

  as I feel pity over your sad state.

  But these two fountains do not act to quench

  the fire that consumes me; no, my pity

  is simply acting to inflame desire.

  242

  “Gaze on that hill, my tired, yearning heart:

  just yesterday we left her there, that one

  who liked us for a while, had some sympathy,

  and now would make our eyes produce a lake.

  “Go back there; I’m content to be alone;

  see if it’s time that we might find relief

  for all this grief that’s growing round us here,

  oh, partner and foreteller of my pain.”

  Now you forget yourself, talk to your heart