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

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 - To Death.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Sonnet On Caucasus.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Joy May Kill.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The True Kings.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Lover And The Sculptor.

Non ha l' ottimo artista.


The best of artists hath no thought to show
        Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell
        Doth not include: to break the marble spell
        Is all the hand that serves the brain can do.
The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so
        In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable,
        Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well
        Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low.
Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face,
        Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain,
        Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny;
Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace
        Enclosed together, and my worthless brain
        Can draw forth only death to feed on me.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

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

Love And Art.

Sì come nella penna.


As pen and ink alike serve him who sings
        In high or low or intermediate style;
        As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile
        To match the fancies that each master brings;
So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs
        Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile:
        Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile,
        But what my face shows--dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs,
        (The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear,
        From different germs take divers qualities)
Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes;
        And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer,
        Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Luigi Del Riccio.

Nel dolce d' una.


It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea
        Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide
        Offence to life and honour. This descried,
        I hold less dear the health restored to me.
He who lends wings of hope, while secretly
        He spreads a traitorous snare by the wayside,
        Hath dulled the flame of love, and mortified
        Friendship where friendship burns most fervently.
Keep then, my dear Luigi, clear and pure
        That ancient love to which my life I owe,
        That neither wind nor storm its calm may mar.
For wrath and pain our gratitude obscure;
        And if the truest truth of love I know,
        One pang outweighs a thousand pleasures far.

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