To Luigi Del Riccio, After The Death Of Cecchino Bracci.

A pena prima.


Scarce had I seen for the first time his eyes
        Which to your living eyes were life and light,
        When closed at last in death's injurious night
        He opened them on God in Paradise.
I know it and I weep, too late made wise:
        Yet was the fault not mine; for death's fell spite
        Robbed my desire of that supreme delight,
        Which in your better memory never dies.
Therefore, Luigi, if the task be mine
        To make unique Cecchino smile in stone
        For ever, now that earth hath made him dim,
If the beloved within the lover shine,
        Since art without him cannot work alone,
        You must I carve to tell the world of him.

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

Flesh And Spirit.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

A Prayer For Strength.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. A Wasted Brand.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Modern Cupid.

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 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

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. After Sunset.

Be' mi dove'.


Well might I in those days so fortunate,
        What time the sun lightened my path above,
        Have soared from earth to heaven, raised by her love
        Who winged my labouring soul and sweetened fate.

That sun hath set; and I with hope elate
        Who deemed that those bright days would never move,
        Find that my thankless soul, deprived thereof,
        Declines to death, while heaven still bars the gate.

Love lent me wings; my path was like a stair;
        A lamp unto my feet, that sun was given;
        And death was safety and great joy to find.

But dying now, I shall not climb to heaven;
        Nor can mere memory cheer my heart's despair:--
        What help remains when hope is left behind?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

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

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. Irreparable Loss.

Se 'l mie rozzo martello.


When my rude hammer to the stubborn stone
        Gives human shape, now that, now this, at will,
        Following his hand who wields and guides it still,
        It moves upon another's feet alone:
But that which dwells in heaven, the world doth fill
        With beauty by pure motions of its own;
        And since tools fashion tools which else were none,
        Its life makes all that lives with living skill.
Now, for that every stroke excels the more
        The higher at the forge it doth ascend,
        Her soul that fashioned mine hath sought the skies:
Wherefore unfinished I must meet my end,
        If God, the great artificer, denies
        That aid which was unique on earth before.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. Love's Triumph Over Death.

Quand' el ministro de' sospir.


When she who was the source of all my sighs,
        Fled from the world, herself, my straining sight,
        Nature who gave us that unique delight,
        Was sunk in shame, and we had weeping eyes.
Yet shall not vauntful Death enjoy this prize,
        This sun of suns which then he veiled in night;
        For Love hath triumphed, lifting up her light
        On earth and mid the saints in Paradise.
What though remorseless and impiteous doom
        Deemed that the music of her deeds would die,
        And that her splendour would be sunk in gloom,
The poet's page exalts her to the sky
        With life more living in the lifeless tomb,
        And death translates her soul to reign on high.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Monsignor Lodovico Beccadelli. Urbino.

Per croce e grazia.


        God's grace, the cross, our troubles multiplied,
        Will make us meet in heaven, full well I know:
        Yet ere we yield our breath, on earth below
        Why need a little solace be denied?

        Though seas and mountains and rough ways divide
        Our feet asunder, neither frost nor snow
        Can make the soul her ancient love forgo;
        Nor chains nor bonds the wings of thought have tied.

        Borne by these wings with thee I dwell for aye,
        And weep, and of my dead Urbino talk,
        Who, were he living, now perchance would be,

        For so 'twas planned, thy guest as well as I:
        Warned by his death another way I walk
        To meet him where he waits to live ...

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni