The Garland And The Girdle.

Quanta si gode, lieta.


What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
        Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
        Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
        As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
        That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind:
        And that fair woven net of gold refined
        Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
        Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
        And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace:
Yea, and the belt to such as understand,
        Bound round her waist, saith: here I'd ever cling.--
        What would my arms do in that girdle's place?

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 God On Prayer.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

A Prayer To Nature. Amor Redivivus. - First Reading

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

A Prayer For Grace In Death. First Reading.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Defence Of Night.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To Weave A Garland For The Rose. By Paul, The Silentiary.

To weave a garland for the rose.
    And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
    That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
    Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
    Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
    The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
    'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
    With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
    Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms
    I now give up my spell-bound heart.

Thomas Moore

To Vittoria Colonna. Brazen Gifts For Golden.

Per esser manco almen.


Seeking at least to be not all unfit
        For thy sublime and boundless courtesy,
        My lowly thoughts at first were fain to try
        What they could yield for grace so infinite.
But now I know my unassisted wit
        Is all too weak to make me soar so high;
        For pardon, lady, for this fault I cry,
        And wiser still I grow remembering it.
Yea, well I see what folly 'twere to think
        That largess dropped from thee like dews from heaven
        Could e'er be paid by work so frail as mine!
To nothingness my art and talent sink;
        He fails who from his mortal stores hath given
        A thousandfold to match one gift divine.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Silkworm.

D' altrui pietoso.


Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
        A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
        Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
        In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
        Raiment in my outworn mortality!
        That, changing like the snake, I might be free
        To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
        Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
        Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
        The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
        Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Tommaso De' Cavalieri. Love's Lordship.

A che più debb' io.


Why should I seek to ease intense desire
        With still more tears and windy words of grief,
        When heaven, or late or soon, sends no relief
        To souls whom love hath robed around with fire?
Why need my aching heart to death aspire,
        When all must die? Nay, death beyond belief
        Unto these eyes would be both sweet and brief,
        Since in my sum of woes all joys expire!
Therefore because I cannot shun the blow
        I rather seek, say who must rule my breast,
        Gliding between her gladness and her woe?
If only chains and bands can make me blest,
        No marvel if alone and bare I go
        An arméd Knight's captive and slave confessed.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Amulet Of Love.

Io mi son caro assai più.


Far more than I was wont myself I prize:
        With you within my heart I rise in rate,
        Just as a gem engraved with delicate
        Devices o'er the uncut stone doth rise;
Or as a painted sheet exceeds in price
        Each leaf left pure and in its virgin state:
        Such then am I since I was consecrate
        To be the mark for arrows from your eyes.
Stamped with your seal I'm safe where'er I go,
        Like one who carries charms or coat of mail
        Against all dangers that his life assail
Nor fire nor water now may work me woe;
        Sight to the blind I can restore by you,
        Heal every wound, and every loss renew.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Gandolfo Porrino. On His Mistress Faustina Mancina.

La nuova alta beltà.


That new transcendent fair who seems to be
        Peerless in heaven as in this world of woe,
        (The common folk, too blind her worth to know
        And worship, called her Left Arm wantonly),
Was made, full well I know, for only thee:
        Nor could I carve or paint the glorious show
        Of that fair face: to life thou needs must go,
        To gain the favour thou dost crave of me.
If like the sun each star of heaven outshining,
        She conquers and outsoars our soaring thought,
        This bids thee rate her worth at its real price.
Therefore to satisfy thy ceaseless pining,
        Once more in heaven hath God her beauty wrought:
        God and not I can people Paradise.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni