To Giorgio Vasari. Vanity Of Vanities.

Le favole del mondo.


The fables of the world have filched away
        The time I had for thinking upon God;
        His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod,
        Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway.

What makes another wise, leads me astray,
        Slow to discern the bad path I have trod:
        Hope fades; but still desire ascends that God
        May free me from self-love, my sure decay.

Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth!
        Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise,
        Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage.

Teach me to hate the world so little worth,
        And all the lovely things I clasp and prize;
        That endless life, ere death, may be my wage.

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

Beauty's Intolerable Splendour.

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The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Sonnet On Caucasus.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love's Vain Expense.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - God Made And God Rules.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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To Giorgio Vasari. On The Brink Of Death.

Giunto è già.


Now hath my life across a stormy sea
        Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all
        Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall
        Of good and evil for eternity.

Now know I well how that fond phantasy
        Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall
        Of earthly art, is vain; how criminal
        Is that which all men seek unwillingly.

Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed,
        What are they when the double death is nigh?
        The one I know for sure, the other dread.

Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest
        My soul that turns to His great love on high,
        Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

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

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

To Giorgio Vasari. On The Lives Of The Painters.

Se con lo stile.


With pencil and with palette hitherto
        You made your art high Nature's paragon;
        Nay more, from Nature her own prize you won,
        Making what she made fair more fair to view.
Now that your learnéd hand with labour new
        Of pen and ink a worthier work hath done,
        What erst you lacked, what still remained her own,
        The power of giving life, is gained for you.
If men in any age with Nature vied
        In beauteous workmanship, they had to yield
        When to the fated end years brought their name.
You, reilluming memories that died,
        In spite of Time and Nature have revealed
        For them and for yourself eternal fame.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Giovanni Da Pistoja. On The Painting Of The Sistine Chapel.

I' ho già fatto un gozzo.


I've grown a goitre by dwelling in this den--
        As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
        Or in what other land they hap to be--
        Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:
My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
        Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
        Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery
        Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.
My loins into my paunch like levers grind:
        My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
        My feet unguided wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,
        By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
        Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:
                Whence false and quaint, I know...

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Second Reading. To Vittoria Colonna. The Model And The Statue.

Se ben concetto.


When that which is divine in us doth try
        To shape a face, both brain and hand unite
        To give, from a mere model frail and slight,
        Life to the stone by Art's free energy.
Thus too before the painter dares to ply
        Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write
        Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite
        Wise minds to judge his figured history.
So, born a model rude and mean to be
        Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth,
        Lady, from you, you fountain of all worth!
Each overplus and each deficiency
        You will make good. What penance then is due
        For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni