Canzioniere

70:
Alas, I do not know where to turn the hope that has been by now betrayed many times. For if there is no one who will listen to me with pity, why scatter prayers to the heavens so thickly? But, if it happens that I am not denied the ending of these pitiful sounds before my death, let it not displease my lord that I beg him again to let me say freely one day among the grass and flowers: "It is right and just that I sing and be joyful."

It is just that at some time I sing, since I have sighed for so long a time that I shall never begin soon enough to make my smiling equal so many sorrows. And if I could make some sweet saying of mine give some delight to those holy eyes, oh me blessed above other lovers. But most when I can say without lying: "A lady begs me; therefore I wish to speak."

Yearning thoughts, which thus step by step have led me to such high speech: you see that my lady has a heart of such a hard stone that I cannot by myself pass within it. She does not deign to look so low as to care about our words; for the heavens do not wish it, and resisting them I am already weary; therefore as in my heart I become
hard and bitter: "So in my speech I wish to be harsh."

What am I saying? or where am I? and who deceives my but myself and my excessive desire? Nay, if I run through the sky from sphere to sphere, no planet condemns me to weeping. If a mortal veil dulls my sight, what fault is it of the stars or of beautiful things? With me dwells one who night and day troubles me, since she made me go
heavy with the pleasure of: "The sweet sight of her and her lovely soft glance."

All things with which the world is beauteous came forth good from the hand of the eternal Workman: but I, who do not discern so far within, am dazzled by the beauty that I see about me, and if I ever return to the true splendor, my eye cannot stay still, it is so weakened by its very own fault, and not by that day when I turned toward that angelic beauty: "In the sweet time of my first age."


125:
If the care that torments me, as it is sharp and dense, were so clothed in a conformable color, perhaps one burns me and flees who would have part of the heat, and Love would awaken where now he is sleeping; less solitary would be the prints of my weary feet through fields and across hills, my eyes less wet always: if she were aflame who now stands like ice and leaves not a dram in me that is not fire and flame. Since Love forces me and strips me of all skill, I speak in harsh rhymes naked of sweetness; but not always does a branch show forth its natural
virtue in flower or in leaf. Let Love and those lovely eyes, where he is sitting in the shade, look on what my heart has shut up in itself. If my sorrow which unburdens itself happens to overflow in weeping or lamenting, the one pains me and the other pains someone else, for I do not polish it. Sweet graceful rhymes that I used in the first assault of Love, when I had no other arms:who will ever come who can shatter the stone about my heart, so that at least I can pour myself forth as I used to do? For it seems to me that I have someone within who always portrays my lady and speaks of her: I am not sufficient to describe her by myself, and I come untuned because of it; alas so has my sweet comfort fled! Like a child
who can hardly move and untangle his tongue, who is not able to speak but hates to be silent any longer, thus desire leads me to speak, and I wish my sweet enemy to hear me before I die. If, perhaps, she takes joy only in her lovely face and flees everything else, do you, green shore, hear it and lend to my sighs so wide a flight that it be always remembered that you were kind to me. You know well that so beautiful a foot never touched the earth as on that day when you were marked by hers, wherefore my weary heart comes back with my tormented flanks to share with you their hidden cares. Would you had hidden away some lovely footprints still among the flowers and grass, that my bitter life might weeping find a place to become calm!

But my fearful, yearning soul satisfies itself as best it can. Wherever I turn my eyes, I find a sweet brightness, thinking: "Here fell the bright light of her eyes." Whatever grass or flower I gather, I believe that it is rooted in the ground where she was wont to walk through the meadows beside the river, and sometimes to make herself a seat, fresh, flowering, and green.

Thus no part is omitted and to know more exactly would be a loss. Blessed spirit, what are you if you make another become such? O poor little song, how inelegant you are! I think you know it: stay in these woods.

(trans. Robert M. Durling)