At The Foot Of The Cross.

Scarco d' un' importuna.


Freed from a burden sore and grievous band,
        Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied,
        Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side,
        As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land.
Thy thorns, Thy nails, and either bleeding hand,
        With Thy mild gentle piteous face, provide
        Promise of help and mercies multiplied,
        And hope that yet my soul secure may stand.
Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see
        My evil past, Thy chastened ears to hear
        And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime:
Let Thy blood only lave and succour me,
        Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer,
        As older still I grow with lengthening time.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni was an Italian sculptor, painter, architect, and poet of the High Renaissance. Born on March 6, 1475, he is widely considered one of the greatest artists of all time. His poetry, although lesser-known compared to his other artistic achievements, displays his deep contemplation of art, love, and spirituality. Michelangelo passed away on February 18, 1564.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - On Italy.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

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Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Soul's Apology.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Blood Of Christ.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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The Blood Of Christ.

Mentre m' attrista.


Mid weariness and woe I find some cheer
        In thinking of the past, when I recall
        My weakness and my sins, and reckon all
        The vain expense of days that disappear:
This cheers by making, ere I die, more clear
        The frailty of what men delight miscall;
        But saddens me to think how rarely fall
        God's grace and mercies in life's latest year.
For though Thy promises our faith compel,
        Yet, Lord, what man shall venture to maintain
        That pity will condone our long neglect?
Still from Thy blood poured forth we know full well
        How without measure was Thy martyr's pain,
        How measureless the gifts we dare expect.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Giorgio Vasari. On The Brink Of Death.

Giunto è già.


Now hath my life across a stormy sea
        Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all
        Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall
        Of good and evil for eternity.

Now know I well how that fond phantasy
        Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall
        Of earthly art, is vain; how criminal
        Is that which all men seek unwillingly.

Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed,
        What are they when the double death is nigh?
        The one I know for sure, the other dread.

Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest
        My soul that turns to His great love on high,
        Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

A Prayer For Strength.

Carico d'anni.


Burdened with years and full of sinfulness,
        With evil custom grown inveterate,
        Both deaths I dread that close before me wait,
        Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.

No strength I find in mine own feebleness
        To change or life or love or use or fate,
        Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late,
        Which only helps and stays our nothingness.

'Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn
        For that celestial home, where yet my soul
        May be new made, and not, as erst, of nought:

Nay, ere Thou strip her mortal vestment, turn
        My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole
        And pure before Thy face she may be brought.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Monsignor Lodovico Beccadelli. Urbino.

Per croce e grazia.


        God's grace, the cross, our troubles multiplied,
        Will make us meet in heaven, full well I know:
        Yet ere we yield our breath, on earth below
        Why need a little solace be denied?

        Though seas and mountains and rough ways divide
        Our feet asunder, neither frost nor snow
        Can make the soul her ancient love forgo;
        Nor chains nor bonds the wings of thought have tied.

        Borne by these wings with thee I dwell for aye,
        And weep, and of my dead Urbino talk,
        Who, were he living, now perchance would be,

        For so 'twas planned, thy guest as well as I:
        Warned by his death another way I walk
        To meet him where he waits to live ...

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Death Of Christ.

Non fur men lieti.


Not less elate than smitten with wild woe
        To see not them but Thee by death undone,
        Were those blest souls, when Thou above the sun
        Didst raise, by dying, men that lay so low:
Elate, since freedom from all ills that flow
        From their first fault for Adam's race was won;
        Sore smitten, since in torment fierce God's son
        Served servants on the cruel cross below.
Heaven showed she knew Thee, who Thou wert and whence,
        Veiling her eyes above the riven earth;
        The mountains trembled and the seas were troubled.
He took the Fathers from hell's darkness dense:
        The torments of the damnéd fiends redoubled:
        Man only joyed, who gained baptismal birth.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. After Sunset.

Be' mi dove'.


Well might I in those days so fortunate,
        What time the sun lightened my path above,
        Have soared from earth to heaven, raised by her love
        Who winged my labouring soul and sweetened fate.

That sun hath set; and I with hope elate
        Who deemed that those bright days would never move,
        Find that my thankless soul, deprived thereof,
        Declines to death, while heaven still bars the gate.

Love lent me wings; my path was like a stair;
        A lamp unto my feet, that sun was given;
        And death was safety and great joy to find.

But dying now, I shall not climb to heaven;
        Nor can mere memory cheer my heart's despair:--
        What help remains when hope is left behind?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni