The Impeachment Of Night.

Perchè Febo non torce.


What time bright Phoebus doth not stretch and bend
        His shining arms around this terrene sphere,
        The people call that season dark and drear
        Night, for the cause they do not comprehend.
So weak is Night that if our hand extend
        A glimmering torch, her shadows disappear,
        Leaving her dead; like frailest gossamere,
        Tinder and steel her mantle rive and rend.
Nay, if this Night be anything at all,
        Sure she is daughter of the sun and earth;
        This holds, the other spreads that shadowy pall.
Howbeit they err who praise this gloomy birth,
        So frail and desolate and void of mirth
        That one poor firefly can her might appal.

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 - A Prophecy Of Judgment. No. 3. The Golden Age.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - On The Lord'S Prayer. No. I.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Invective Against The People Of Pistoja.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Doom Of Beauty.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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Sacred Night.

Ogni van chiuso.


All hollow vaults and dungeons sealed from sight,
        All caverns circumscribed with roof and wall,
        Defend dark Night, though noon around her fall,
        From the fierce play of solar day-beams bright.
But if she be assailed by fire or light,
        Her powers divine are nought; they tremble all
        Before things far more vile and trivial--
        Even a glow-worm can confound their might.
The earth that lies bare to the sun, and breeds
        A thousand germs that burgeon and decay--
        This earth is wounded by the ploughman's share:
But only darkness serves for human seeds;
        Night therefore is more sacred far than day,
        Since man excels all fruits however fair.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Defence Of Night.

O nott' o dolce tempo.


O night, O sweet though sombre span of time!--
        All things find rest upon their journey's end--
        Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apprehend;
        And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom's prime.
Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime;
        For dews and darkness are of peace the friend:
        Often by thee in dreams upborne, I wend
        From earth to heaven, where yet I hope to climb.
Thou shade of Death, through whom the soul at length
        Shuns pain and sadness hostile to the heart,
        Whom mourners find their last and sure relief!
Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength,
        Driest our tears, assuagest every smart,
        Purging the spirits of the pure from grief.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Light And Darkness.

Colui che fece.


He who ordained, when first the world began,
        Time, that was not before creation's hour,
        Divided it, and gave the sun's high power
        To rule the one, the moon the other span:
Thence fate and changeful chance and fortune's ban
        Did in one moment down on mortals shower:
        To me they portioned darkness for a dower;
        Dark hath my lot been since I was a man.
Myself am ever mine own counterfeit;
        And as deep night grows still more dim and dun,
        So still of more misdoing must I rue:
Meanwhile this solace to my soul is sweet,
        That my black night doth make more clear the sun
        Which at your birth was given to wait on you.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Coming Of Night.

How the old mountains drip with sunset,
And the brake of dun!
How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel
By the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,
Till the ball is full, --
Have I the lip of the flamingo
That I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,
Touching all the grass
With a departing, sapphire feature,
As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the village
Till the houses blot;
And the odd flambeaux no men carry
Glimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel,
And where was the wood,
Just a dome of abyss is nodding
Into solitude! --

These are the visions baffled Guido;
Titian never told;
Domenichino dropped the pencil,
Powerless to unfold.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Sestina I.

A qualunque animale alberga in terra.

NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR.


    To every animal that dwells on earth,
Except to those which have in hate the sun,
Their time of labour is while lasts the day;
But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,
This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,
Each finds repose, at least until the dawn.

But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawn
To chase the lingering shades that cloak'd the earth,
Wakening the animals in every wood,
No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;
And, when again I see the glistening stars,
Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day.

When sober evening chases the bright day,
And this our darkness makes for others dawn,
Pensive I look upon...

Francesco Petrarca

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XIV. Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced.


Filled with the wonders I had seen
    In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,
I felt the veil of sleep serene
Come o'er the memory of each scene,
    As twilight o'er the landscape falls.
Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,

Thomas Moore