Love Feeds The Flame Of Age.

Quand' il servo il signior.


When masters bind a slave with cruel chain,
        And keep him hope-forlorn in bondage pent,
        Use tames his temper to imprisonment,
        And hardly would he fain be free again.
Use curbs the snake and tiger, and doth train
        Fierce woodland lions to bear chastisement;
        And the young artist, all with toil forspent,
        By constant use a giant's strength doth gain
But with the force of flame it is not so:
        For while fire sucks the sap of the green wood,
        It warms a frore old man and makes him grow;
With such fine heat of youth and lustihood
        Filling his heart and teaching it to glow,
        That love enfolds him with beatitude.
                                If then in playful mood
        He sport and jest, old age need no man blame;
        For loving things divine implies no shame.
                                The soul that knows her aim,
        Sins not by loving God's own counterfeit--
        Due measure kept, and bounds, and order meet.

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

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Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

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Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

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Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love's Flame Doth Feed On Age.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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Love's Flame Doth Feed On Age.

Se da' prim' anni.


If some mild heat of love in youth confessed
        Burns a fresh heart with swift consuming fire,
        What will the force be of a flame more dire
        Shut up within an old man's cindery breast?
If the mere lapse of lengthening years hath pressed
        So sorely that life, strength, and vigour tire,
        How shall he fare who must ere long expire,
        When to old age is added love's unrest?
Weak as myself, he will be whirled away
        Like dust by winds kind in their cruelty,
        Robbing the loathly worm of its last prey.
A little flame consumed and fed on me
        In my green age: now that the wood is dry,
        What hope against this fire more fierce have I?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love In Youth And Age. First Reading.

Tornami al tempo.


Bring back the time when blind desire ran free,
        With bit and rein too loose to curb his flight;
        Give back the buried face, once angel-bright,
        That hides in earth all comely things from me;
Bring back those journeys ta'en so toilsomely,
        So toilsome-slow to one whose hairs are white;
        Those tears and flames that in one breast unite;
        If thou wilt once more take thy fill of me!
Yet Love! Suppose it true that thou dost thrive
        Only on bitter honey-dews of tears.
        Small profit hast thou of a weak old man.
My soul that toward the other shore doth strive,
        Wards off thy darts with shafts of holier fears;
        And fire feeds ill on brands no breath can fan.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love's Furnace.

Sì amico al freddo sasso.


So friendly is the fire to flinty stone,
        That, struck therefrom and kindled to a blaze,
        It burns the stone, and from the ash doth raise
        What lives thenceforward binding stones in one:
Kiln-hardened this resists both frost and sun,
        Acquiring higher worth for endless days--
        As the purged soul from hell returns with praise,
        Amid the heavenly host to take her throne.
E'en so the fire struck from my soul, that lay
        Close-hidden in my heart, may temper me,
        Till burned and slaked to better life I rise.
If, made mere smoke and dust, I live to-day,
        Fire-hardened I shall live eternally;
        Such gold, not iron, my spirit strikes and tries.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love In Youth And Age. Second Reading.

Tornami al tempo.


Bring back the time when glad desire ran free
        With bit and rein too loose to curb his flight,
        The tears and flames that in one breast unite,
        If thou art fain once more to conquer me!
Bring back those journeys ta'en so toilsomely,
        So toilsome-slow to him whose hairs are white!
        Give back the buried face once angel-bright,
        That taxed all Nature's art and industry.
O Love! an old man finds it hard to chase
        Thy flying pinions! Thou hast left thy nest;
        Nor is my heart as light as heretofore.
Put thy gold arrows to the string once more:
        Then if Death hear my prayer and grant me grace,
        My grief I shall forget, again made blest.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love Is A Refiner's Fire.

Non più ch' 'l foco il fabbro.


It is with fire that blacksmiths iron subdue
        Unto fair form, the image of their thought:
        Nor without fire hath any artist wrought
        Gold to its utmost purity of hue.
Nay, nor the unmatched phoenix lives anew,
        Unless she burn: if then I am distraught
        By fire, I may to better life be brought
        Like those whom death restores nor years undo.
The fire whereof I speak, is my great cheer;
        Such power it hath to renovate and raise
        Me who was almost numbered with the dead;
And since by nature fire doth find its sphere
        Soaring aloft, and I am all ablaze,
        Heavenward with it my flight must needs be sped.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

In Love's Own Time.

S' i' avessi creduto.


Had I but earlier known that from the eyes
        Of that bright soul that fires me like the sun,
        I might have drawn new strength my race to run,
        Burning as burns the phoenix ere it dies;
Even as the stag or lynx or leopard flies
        To seek his pleasure and his pain to shun,
        Each word, each smile of her would I have won,
        Flying where now sad age all flight denies.
Yet why complain? For even now I find
        In that glad angel's face, so full of rest,
        Health and content, heart's ease and peace of mind
Perchance I might have been less simply blest,
        Finding her sooner: if 'tis age alone
        That lets me soar with her to seek God's throne.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni