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

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 Tobia Adami.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love's Paradoxes.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love's Servitude.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - Conscience.

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.

The Artist And His Work.

Com' esser, donna, può.


How can that be, lady, which all men learn
        By long experience? Shapes that seem alive,
        Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive
        Their maker, whom the years to dust return!
Thus to effect cause yields. Art hath her turn,
        And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive
        With Sculpture, know this well; her wonders live
        In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern.
So I can give long life to both of us
        In either way, by colour or by stone,
        Making the semblance of thy face and mine.
Centuries hence when both are buried, thus
        Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown,
        And men shall say, 'For her 'twas wise to pine.'

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

Love's Dilemma.

I' mi credetti.


I deemed upon that day when first I knew
        So many peerless beauties blent in one,
        That, like an eagle gazing on the sun,
        Mine eyes might fix on the least part of you.
That dream hath vanished, and my hope is flown;
        For he who fain a seraph would pursue
        Wingless, hath cast words to the winds, and dew
        On stones, and gauged God's reason with his own.
If then my heart cannot endure the blaze
        Of beauties infinite that blind these eyes,
        Nor yet can bear to be from you divided,
What fate is mine? Who guides or guards my ways,
        Seeing my soul, so lost and ill-betided,
        Burns in your presence, in your absence dies?

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 Death.

Ognor che l' idol mio.


Whene'er the idol of these eyes appears
        Unto my musing heart so weak and strong,
        Death comes between her and my soul ere long
        Chasing her thence with troops of gathering fears.
Nathless this violence my spirit cheers
        With better hope than if she had no wrong;
        While Love invincible arrays the throng
        Of dauntless thoughts, and thus harangues his peers:
But once, he argues, can a mortal die;
        But once be born: and he who dies afire,
        What shall he gain if erst he dwelt with me?
That burning love whereby the soul flies free,
        Doth lure each fervent spirit to aspire
        Like gold refined in flame to God on high.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Sonnet Of Michel Angelo Buonarotti

Never did sculptor's dream unfold
A form which marble doth not hold
In its white block; yet it therein shall find
Only the hand secure and bold
Which still obeys the mind.
So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
The ill I shun, the good I claim;
I alas! not well alive,
Miss the aim whereto I strive.
Not love, nor beauty's pride,
Nor Fortune, nor thy coldness, can I chide,
If, whilst within thy heart abide
Both death and pity, my unequal skill
Fails of the life, but draws the death and ill.

Ralph Waldo Emerson