Beauty's Intolerable Splendour.

Se 'l foco alla bellezza.


If but the fire that lightens in thine eyes
        Were equal with their beauty, all the snow
        And frost of all the world would melt and glow
        Like brands that blaze beneath fierce tropic skies.
But heaven in mercy to our miseries
        Dulls and divides the fiery beams that flow
        From thy great loveliness, that we may go
        Through this stern mortal life in tranquil wise.
Thus beauty burns not with consuming rage;
        For so much only of the heavenly light
        Inflames our love as finds a fervent heart.
This is my case, lady, in sad old age:
        If seeing thee, I do not die outright,
        'Tis that I feel thy beauty but in part.

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

Light And Darkness.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Brood Of Ignorance.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Millennium.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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Beauty And The Artist.

Al cor di zolfo.


A heart of flaming sulphur, flesh of tow,
        Bones of dry wood, a soul without a guide
        To curb the fiery will, the ruffling pride
        Of fierce desires that from the passions flow;
A sightless mind that weak and lame doth go
        Mid snares and pitfalls scattered far and wide;--
        What wonder if the first chance brand applied
        To fuel massed like this should make it glow?
Add beauteous art, which, brought with us from heaven,
        Will conquer nature;--so divine a power
        Belongs to him who strives with every nerve.
If I was made for art, from childhood given
        A prey for burning beauty to devour,
        I blame the mistress I was born to serve.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Transfiguration Of Beauty: A Dialogue With Love.

Dimmi di grazia, amor.


Nay, prithee tell me, Love, when I behold
        My lady, do mine eyes her beauty see
        In truth, or dwells that loveliness in me
        Which multiplies her grace a thousandfold?
Thou needs must know; for thou with her of old
        Comest to stir my soul's tranquillity;
        Yet would I not seek one sigh less, or be
        By loss of that loved flame more simply cold.--
The beauty thou discernest, all is hers;
        But grows in radiance as it soars on high
        Through mortal eyes unto the soul above:
'Tis there transfigured; for the soul confers
        On what she holds, her own divinity:
        And this transfigured beauty wins thy love.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Doom Of Beauty.

Spirto ben nato.


Choice soul, in whom, as in a glass, we see,
        Mirrored in thy pure form and delicate,
        What beauties heaven and nature can create,
        The paragon of all their works to be!
Fair soul, in whom love, pity, piety,
        Have found a home, as from thy outward state
        We clearly read, and are so rare and great
        That they adorn none other like to thee!
Love takes me captive; beauty binds my soul;
        Pity and mercy with their gentle eyes
        Wake in my heart a hope that cannot cheat.
What law, what destiny, what fell control,
        What cruelty, or late or soon, denies
        That death should spare perfection so complete?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love's Excuse.

Dal dolcie pianto.


From happy tears to woeful smiles, from peace
        Eternal to a brief and hollow truce,
        How have I fallen!--when 'tis truth we lose,
        Sense triumphs o'er all adverse impulses.
I know not if my heart bred this disease,
        That still more pleasing grows with growing use;
        Or else thy face, thine eyes, which stole the hues
        And fires of Paradise--less fair than these.
Thy beauty is no mortal thing; 'twas sent
        From heaven on high to make our earth divine:
        Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I'm content;
For in thy sight what could I do but pine?
        If God himself thus rules my destiny,
        Who, when I die, can lay the blame on thee?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Heavenly Birth Of Love And Beauty.

La vita del mie amor.


This heart of flesh feeds not with life my love:
        The love wherewith I love thee hath no heart;
        Nor harbours it in any mortal part,
        Where erring thought or ill desire may move.
When first Love sent our souls from God above,
        He fashioned me to see thee as thou art--
        Pure light; and thus I find God's counterpart
        In thy fair face, and feel the sting thereof.
As heat from fire, from loveliness divine
        The mind that worships what recalls the sun
        From whence she sprang, can be divided never:
And since thine eyes all Paradise enshrine,
        Burning unto those orbs of light I run,
        There where I loved thee first to dwell for ever.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love's Paradoxes.

Sento d' un foco.


Far off with fire I feel a cold face lit,
        That makes me burn, the while itself doth freeze:
        Two fragile arms enchain me, which with ease,
        Unmoved themselves, can move weights infinite.
A soul none knows but I, most exquisite,
        That, deathless, deals me death, my spirit sees:
        I meet with one who, free, my heart doth seize:
        And who alone can cheer, hath tortured it.
How can it be that from one face like thine
        My own should feel effects so contrary,
        Since ill comes not from things devoid of ill?
That loveliness perchance doth make me pine,
        Even as the sun, whose fiery beams we see,
        Inflames the world, while he is temperate still.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni