Invective Against The People Of Pistoja.

I' l' ho, vostra mercè.


I've gotten it, thanks to your courtesy;
        And I have read it twenty times or so:
        Thus much may your sharp snarling profit you,
        As food our flesh filled to satiety.
After I left you, I could plainly see
        How Cain was of your ancestors: I know
        You do not shame his lineage, for lo,
        Your brother's good still seems your injury.
Envious you are, and proud, and foes to heaven;
        Love of your neighbour still you loathe and hate,
        And only seek what must your ruin be.
If to Pistoja Dante's curse was given,
        Bear that in mind! Enough! But if you prate
        Praises of Florence, 'tis to wheedle me.
                A priceless jewel she:
Doubtless: but this you cannot understand:
For pigmy virtue grasps not aught so grand.

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 - The People.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

At The Foot Of The Cross.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Waiting For Death.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

To Monsignor Lodovico Beccadelli. Urbino.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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To Pope Julius II.

Signor, se vero è.


My Lord! if ever ancient saw spake sooth,
        Hear this which saith: Who can, doth never will.
        Lo! thou hast lent thine ear to fables still,
        Rewarding those who hate the name of truth.
I am thy drudge and have been from my youth--
        Thine, like the rays which the sun's circle fill;
        Yet of my dear time's waste thou think'st no ill:
        The more I toil, the less I move thy ruth.
Once 'twas my hope to raise me by thy height;
        But 'tis the balance and the powerful sword
        Of Justice, not false Echo, that we need.
Heaven, as it seems, plants virtue in despite
        Here on the earth, if this be our reward--
        To seek for fruit on trees too dry to breed.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Giovanni Da Pistoja. On The Painting Of The Sistine Chapel.

I' ho già fatto un gozzo.


I've grown a goitre by dwelling in this den--
        As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
        Or in what other land they hap to be--
        Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:
My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
        Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
        Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery
        Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.
My loins into my paunch like levers grind:
        My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
        My feet unguided wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,
        By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
        Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:
                Whence false and quaint, I know...

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Purgatory: Canto XI

"O thou Almighty Father, who dost make
The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd,
But that with love intenser there thou view'st
Thy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name:
Join each created being to extol
Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise
Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace
Come unto us; for we, unless it come,
With all our striving thither tend in vain.
As of their will the angels unto thee
Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne
With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done
By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day
Our daily manna, without which he roams
Through this rough desert retrograde, who most
Toils to advance his steps. As we to each
Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou
Benign, and of our merit take no count.
...

Dante Alighieri

The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Purgatory: Canto XIV

"Say who is he around our mountain winds,
Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight,
That opes his eyes and covers them at will?"

"I know not who he is, but know thus much
He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,
For thou art nearer to him, and take heed
Accost him gently, so that he may speak."

Thus on the right two Spirits bending each
Toward the other, talk'd of me, then both
Addressing me, their faces backward lean'd,
And thus the one began: "O soul, who yet
Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky!
For charity, we pray thee' comfort us,
Recounting whence thou com'st, and who thou art:
For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee
Marvel, as at a thing that ne'er hath been."

"There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,"
I stra...

Dante Alighieri

On Dante Alighieri.

Dal ciel discese.


From heaven his spirit came, and robed in clay
        The realms of justice and of mercy trod,
        Then rose a living man to gaze on God,
        That he might make the truth as clear as day.
For that pure star that brightened with his ray
        The undeserving nest where I was born,
        The whole wide world would be a prize to scorn;
        None but his Maker can due guerdon pay.
I speak of Dante, whose high work remains
        Unknown, unhonoured by that thankless brood,
        Who only to just men deny their wage.
Were I but he! Born for like lingering pains,
        Against his exile coupled with his good
        I'd gladly change the world's best heritage!

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

On Dante Alighieri.

Quante dirne si de'.


No tongue can tell of him what should be told,
        For on blind eyes his splendour shines too strong;
        'Twere easier to blame those who wrought him wrong,
        Than sound his least praise with a mouth of gold.
He to explore the place of pain was bold,
        Then soared to God, to teach our souls by song;
        The gates heaven oped to bear his feet along,
        Against his just desire his country rolled.
Thankless I call her, and to her own pain
        The nurse of fell mischance; for sign take this,
        That ever to the best she deals more scorn:
Among a thousand proofs let one remain;
        Though ne'er was fortune more unjust than his,
        His equal or his better ne'er was born.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni