by David Young
except for her, who was his light and mine;
since she has died on earth and been reborn
in Heaven, that spirit for whom I lived and breathed,
my only wish is to go join her there.
But I will always grieve instead, because
I lacked the skill to diagnose my illness,
though Love was showing me beneath that brow
another sort of counsel:
many have died in sorrow, unreprieved,
who might have died in joy by dying sooner.
In her eyes where my heart so loved to dwell
(until my bitter fate fell prey to envy
and banished it from having such rich quarters)
Love had inscribed, with his own hand, the letters
that told, with pity, what would soon become
of all my lengthy journey of desire.
Lovely and sweet if I’d died then, when dying
would not have meant my life died with me too
but rather that my best part would live on;
and now Death scatters hope;
a little earth conceals my former wealth
and I live on, to think of it and shudder.
If my small intellect had been with me
when I most needed it, not off somewhere
distracted by another kind of hunger,
I might have read upon my lady’s brow:
“You’ve reached the very end of all your sweetness,
and now you’re at the threshold of your bitterness.”
If I had understood that, sweetly free
of my own mortal coil, in her presence,
this cumbersome and heavy flesh of mine,
I could have gone before her,
to see the throne prepared for her in Heaven;
instead I’ll follow later, silver-haired.
Song, if you find one peacefully in love,
say, “While you’re happy, die;
for timely death’s not grief, it is a refuge,
and he who can die well should not delay.”
332
My fortune kindly and my life so joyful,
unclouded days and coolly tranquil nights,
the gentle sighing and the sweet new style
that used to resonate in verse and rhymes,
changed in a moment into grief and weeping,
to make me hate this life and yearn for death.
Oh, cruel, harsh, inexorable Death,
you give me reason never to be joyful,
but rather to spend all my time in weeping
through days of darkness and lamenting nights;
my heavy sighs will not turn into rhymes
and my harsh torment will not yield to style.
Where has it led me, my old loving style,
except to speak of sorrow and of death?
Where are the verses now, where are the rhymes
that used to make a good heart thoughtful, joyful?
Where are the times I talked of love all night?
When I speak now, I only think of weeping.
It once meant sweet desire, all that weeping,
and thus the sweetness smoothed the bitter style
and made me stay awake through many nights;
but now the tears are bitterness like death
because I’ll never see that look, so joyful,
the noble subject of my humble rhymes.
Love set a vivid target for my rhymes
in those clear eyes, and now it ends in weeping,
reminding me of all that was so joyful,
and as I change my thoughts I change my style
and find myself entreating you, pale Death,
to rescue me from all these painful nights.
For sleep no longer visits my cruel nights,
and there’s no more sonority in rhymes,
since all they seem to speak about is death,
and all my singing has transformed to weeping.
Love has no room for such a transformed style
that turns to sorrow all that once was joyful.
There never was a man who was more joyful
and then transformed to sorrow, days and nights,
and doubles up his grief in doubled style,
extracting from his heart such tearful rhymes.
I lived on hope, and now I live on weeping
and all I want from Death is just my death.
For Death has dealt me death, and only Death
could show me once again that face, so joyful,
that made me able to enjoy my weeping,
that aura, sweet, that rain that filled my nights
when I could turn my noble thoughts to rhymes
because the love god strengthened my weak style.
I wish I’d had so sorrowful a style
that I could win my Laura back from Death
as Orpheus did Eurydice, sans rhymes,
for then I would be marvelously joyful!
And if I can’t I beg that soon, some night,
my life will end, and close these fountains weeping.
Think of it, Love, these many years of weeping
for what I lost, my heavy, grieving style,
my sense that they won’t stop, these cruel nights;
no wonder I have turned to begging Death
to take me from this place, to make me joyful:
bring me to her for whom I make my rhymes.
If they can go so high, my tired rhymes,
and reach the one who dwells beyond all weeping,
whose beauty even now makes Heaven joyful,
she’ll surely recognize my altered style
which may have pleased her some, until her death
brought her bright days, that made for me dark nights.
And all of you who sigh for better nights,
who hear of Love or write of it in rhymes,
please beg her to give in to me, grim Death,
and bring me to the port of pain and weeping;
ask her, for once, to change her ancient style
that deals out sorrow: she can make me joyful.
She’ll make me joyful in one night, ere long,
and thus in this harsh style, with anguished rhymes,
I pray that Death will come relieve my weeping.
333
Go, doleful rhymes, and visit the hard stone
that hides my dearest treasure in the earth;
call on her there, who will respond from Heaven
although her mortal part lies dark and buried.
Tell her that I’m already sick of living,
of sailing through these rough and heaving seas;
tell her I gather up her scattered leaves
and follow where she went, step after step,
and speak of her alone, alive and dead,
(or rather, still alive, and now immortal),
so that this world may understand and love her.
Ask her to pay attention to my death day,
which can’t be far away, so she can meet me,
and summon me to where she is, in Heaven.
334
If virtuous love is worthy, still, of mercy,
and pity still retains her former power,
I shall find mercy, since my faith remains
bright as the sun, to her and to the world.
She used to fear me; now she knows, for certain,
the thing I want is what I always wanted,
and where she once heard words and saw my face
she now can read my very mind and heart.
And so I hope there will be grief in Heaven
for all my sighs; indeed, it seems it’s happening,
for she returns to me, evincing pity;
which makes me hope that when I shed this husk
she will come fetch me, with our people helping,
she, the true friend of virtue and of Christ.
335
I saw, among a thousand ladies, one
of such a worth that love and fear assailed me,
for I could tell, without exaggeration,
that she resembled a celestial spirit.
She had no trace of earth or death about her
and cared for Heaven only, nothing else;
my soul, that pined and burned to be with her,
opened its wings in yearning, trying to fly;
but she was much too high for my gross weight,
and in a while she vanished out of sight;
and thinking of that freezes me in numbness.
Oh, high and lovely windows, clear with light,
where she who makes so many of us sad
found entrance to so beautiful a body!
336
She comes to mind (or rather say that she
stays in my mind, for Lethe can’t erase her)
just as I saw her in her youthful flowering,
glowing with all the radiance of her star;
I see her as at first, so chaste and lovely,
so self-contained, so inward-turned and shy,
and I cry out: “It’s she, she’s still alive!”
and beg her for the gift of her sweet speech.
Sometime she answers, sometimes she is mute;
and I, like one who’s wrong and then corrected,
say to myself: “Oh yes, you are deceived.
“You know, in thirteen forty-eight, upon
the sixth of April, as the day began,
her blessed soul departed from her body.”
337
Something that, both in color and in fragrance,
surpassed the odoriferous, bright East,
and flowers, fruits, and grass by which the West
is known for rarities and excellence:
my sweetest laurel, tree in which there lived
every beauty, all the ardent virtues,
and seated in its shadow, resting chastely,
my noble lord and my supremest goddess.
I made a nest of all my truest thoughts
in that rich tree, and though in ice and fire,
freezing and burning, I was truly happy.
Her perfect qualities had filled the world
when God, in order to adorn His Heaven,
recalled her to Himself, as worthy of His presence.
338
Death, you have left this poor world cold and dark
without its sun, with Love disarmed and blind,
Graciousness naked, Beauty weak and sick,
me desolate, a burden to myself,
Courtesy exiled, Chastity degraded.
I grieve alone, though all have cause to grieve,
since you’ve dug up the brightest seed of virtue:
and once the best is dead, what will be second?
Earth, air, and sea should weep together, for
the human lineage, once she’s gone, becomes
a meadow stripped of flowers, a gemless ring.
The world, while it possessed her, didn’t know her;
I knew her, and I’m left behind to weep,
while Heaven gathers beauty from my weeping.
339
I knew (since Heaven cleared my eyes so much
while Love and eagerness helped spread my wings)
things new and light and graceful, but still mortal,
which all the stars had showered on one subject.
Those many other high celestial forms,
so strange and wondrous and immortal, I
could not endure with my weak vision then
because my intellect was not attuned.
And thus the things I said or wrote of her,
who now repays my praises with her prayers,
were like a drop of water in an ocean;
because our pens cannot outreach our wits,
and even if your eyes fix on the sun,
the brighter shines its light, the less you see.
340
My sweet and dear and greatly cherished pledge
whom Nature took from me, and Heaven keeps,
how is it that your pity is so tardy,
oh, you, the one sustainer of my life?
At least you used to feel my sleep was worthy
to have some sight of you. Now you let me burn
without relief; and why delay its coming?
Anger and scorn are surely absent there,
the kind that can make even tender hearts
down here enjoy another person’s torment,
and even banish Love from his own realm.
Since you can see inside me, know my pain,
and are the only one who can relieve it,
send down your shade to quiet my laments.
341
What pity, ah, what angel was so swift
to carry my heart-sorrow through the heavens?
For once again I feel, as in the past,
my lady’s presence and her sweet, chaste ways,
that pacify my sad and wretched heart;
such great humility, such lack of pride,
that now I pull myself away from death
and living is no longer painful to me.
Blessèd indeed is she who can make others
blest by the sight of her or by her words,
words that for both of us have special meaning:
“My dear and faithful one, I grieve for you,
but I was cruel to you for our own good,”
she says, and more, and makes the sun stand still.
342
With food my lord always provides profusely—
tears and great sorrow—I feed my weary heart,
and often I both tremble and grow pale
when I consider that the wound’s so deep.
But she, whom no one bettered, or came close to,
when she was living, visits my sickbed,
so lovely that I scarcely dare to look,
and full of pity sits there on its edge.
She strokes and dries my eyes with that same hand
for which I used to feel so much desire,
while she speaks words that make me drown in sweetness:
“What good,” she asks, “is knowledge to despair?
Please stop this weeping, isn’t it enough?
Would you were as alive as I’m not dead!”
343
When I think back upon that gentle glance
which Heaven honors now, tilt of her head,
her golden hair, the modest angel voice
that sweetened life for me, it breaks my heart
and makes me marvel that I’m still alive;
I wouldn’t be if she who made you doubt
which was the greater, her beauty or her truth,
was not so quick to help me as day dawns.
Oh, how she greets me, sweet and chaste and kind,
and how she listens, taking note, intently,
to all my history of sufferings!
When day’s full brightness seems to touch her image
she turns away, takes herself back to Heaven,
the way she knows, her cheeks still wet with tears.
344
There may have been a time when love was sweet
(although I don’t recall); it’s bitter now,
and nothing rivals it; whoever’s learned
as I have, through great grief, knows this is true.
She who gave truth and honor to our world
and now makes Heaven bright and lovely too,
made my rest brief and rare when she was here
and now has left me void of all repose.
Cruel Death has stripped me of my every treasure,
nor does her bliss there temper the distress
of having lost that lovely soul of hers.
I wept and sang; I cannot change my style;
thus day and night the grief my soul has gathere
d
pours forth both from my eyes and from my tongue.
345
Sorrow and love propelled this tongue of mine,
prone to complaint, to say what it should not:
to say of her for whom I sang and burned
something that would be wrong if it were true;
it ought to be enough to quiet me,
and give my heart sufficient consolation,
that her condition’s blest, that she’s with Him
who while she lived was always in her heart.
And yes, I do grow calm, console myself,
nor would I wish her back inside this hell,
I’d rather die or live on here alone;
for I can watch her with internal sight,
rising with flocks of angels, soaring high,
up to the feet of our eternal Lord.
346
The chosen angels and the blessèd souls,
all citizens of Heaven, that first day
my lady passed across, surrounded her
and marveled at her, full of reverence.
“What light is this and what amazing beauty?”
they said to one another. “Such a soul,
lovely as this one, never has arrived
up from that erring world to this high realm.”
And happy to have changed her dwelling place
and equal to the most perfected souls,
yet she looks back, from time to time, to see
if I am following, and seems to wait,
and so I bend my thoughts and needs toward Heaven,
and seem to hear her praying that I hurry.
347
Lady, now living in our Maker’s presence,
joyous reward for a deserving life,
seated upon a high and glorious throne
adorned with other things than pearls or purple,
oh, wonder among ladies, high and rare:
now, in the face of He who sees all things,
you see my love, you witness that pure faith
for which I spilled such tears and so much ink,
and now you know my heart was yours on earth
as it is yours in Heaven, that I wanted
nothing except the sunlight of your eyes.
I therefore make amends for that long war
in which I spurned the world and loved you only,
and pray that soon I may come join you there.
348
From the most lovely eyes, the brightest face
that ever shone, from that resplendent hair
which made the sun and gold seem less attractive,
from sweetest speech and from the sweetest smile,
from hands and arms that could have vanquished all
Love’s greatest rebels, without even moving,
from feet too beautiful, so small and slender,
and from a body made in Paradise,
my spirits woke to life; now Heaven’s King
and all His wingèd courtiers enjoy them
