Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

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?

Qual maraviglia è.


If being near the fire I burned with it,
        Now that its flame is quenched and doth not show,
        What wonder if I waste within and glow,
        Dwindling away to cinders bit by bit?

While still it burned, I saw so brightly lit
        That splendour whence I drew my grievous woe,
        That from its sight alone could pleasure flow,
        And death and torment both seemed exquisite.

But now that heaven hath robbed me of the blaze
        Of that great fire which burned and nourished me,
        A coal that smoulders 'neath the ash am I.

Unless Love furnish wood fresh flames to raise,
        I shall expire with not one spark to see,
        So quickly into embers do I die!

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.

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.

Deh fammiti vedere.


Oh, make me see Thee, Lord, where'er I go!
        If mortal beauty sets my soul on fire,
        That flame when near to Thine must needs expire,
        And I with love of only Thee shall glow.
Dear Lord, Thy help I seek against this woe,
        These torments that my spirit vex and tire;
        Thou only with new strength canst re-inspire
        My will, my sense, my courage faint and low.
Thou gavest me on earth this soul divine;
        And Thou within this body weak and frail
        Didst prison it--how sadly there to live!
How can I make its lot less vile than mine?
        Without Thee, Lord, all goodness seems to fail.
        To alter fate is God's prerogative.

Non è più bassa.


There's not on earth a thing more vile and base
        Than, lacking Thee, I feel myself to be:
        For pardon prays my own debility,
        Yearning in vain to lift me to Thy face.

Stretch to me, Lord, that chain whose links enlace
        All heavenly gifts and all felicity--
        Faith, whereunto I strive perpetually,
        Yet cannot find (my fault) her perfect grace.

That gift of gifts, the rarer 'tis, the more
        I count it great; more great, because to earth
        Without it neither peace nor joy is given.

If Thou Thy blood so lovingly didst pour,
        Let not that bounty fail or suffer dearth,
        Withholding Faith that opes the doors of heaven.

S' avvien che spesso.


What though strong love of life doth flatter me
        With hope of yet more years on earth to stay,
        Death none the less draws nearer day by day,
        Who to sad souls alone comes lingeringly.
Yet why desire long life and jollity,
        If in our griefs alone to God we pray?
        Glad fortune, length of days, and pleasure slay
        The soul that trusts to their felicity.
Then if at any hour through grace divine
        The fiery shafts of love and faith that cheer
        And fortify the soul, my heart assail,
Since nought achieve these mortal powers of mine,
        Straight may I wing my way to heaven; for here
        With lengthening days good thoughts and wishes fail.

Parmi che spesso.


Ofttimes my great desire doth flatter me
        With hope on earth yet many years to stay:
        Still Death, the more I love it, day by day
        Takes from the life I love so tenderly.
What better time for that dread change could be,
        If in our griefs alone to God we pray?
        Oh, lead me, Lord, oh, lead me far away
        From every thought that lures my soul from Thee!
Yea, if at any hour, through grace of Thine,
        The fervent zeal of love and faith that cheer
        And fortify the soul, my heart assail.
Since nought achieve these mortal powers of mine,
        Plant, like a saint in heaven, that virtue here;
        For, lacking Thee, all good must faint and fail.

Forse perchè d' altrui.


Perchance that I might learn what pity is,
        That I might laugh at erring men no more,
        Secure in my own strength as heretofore,
        My soul hath fallen from her state of bliss:
Nor know I under any flag but this
        How fighting I may 'scape those perils sore,
        Or how survive the rout and horrid roar
        Of adverse hosts, if I Thy succour miss.
O flesh! O blood! O cross! O pain extreme!
        By you may those foul sins be purified,
        Wherein my fathers were, and I was born!
Lo, Thou alone art good: let Thy supreme
        Pity my state of evil cleanse and hide--
        So near to death, so far from God, forlorn.

Carico d'anni.


Burdened with years and full of sinfulness,
        With evil custom grown inveterate,
        Both deaths I dread that close before me wait,
        Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.

No strength I find in mine own feebleness
        To change or life or love or use or fate,
        Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late,
        Which only helps and stays our nothingness.

'Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn
        For that celestial home, where yet my soul
        May be new made, and not, as erst, of nought:

Nay, ere Thou strip her mortal vestment, turn
        My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole
        And pure before Thy face she may be brought.

Perchè tuo gran bellezze.


That thy great beauty on our earth may be
        Shrined in a lady softer and more kind,
        I call on nature to collect and bind
        All those delights the slow years steal from thee,
And save them to restore the radiancy
        Of thy bright face in some fair form designed
        By heaven; and may Love ever bear in mind
        To mould her heart of grace and courtesy.
I call on nature too to keep my sighs,
        My scattered tears to take and recombine,
        And give to him who loves that fair again:
More happy he perchance shall move those eyes
        To mercy by the griefs wherewith I pine,
        Nor lose the kindness that from me is ta'en!

Sol perchè tue bellezze.


If only that thy beauties here may be
        Deathless through Time that rends the wreaths he twined,
        I trust that Nature will collect and bind
        All those delights the slow years steal from thee,
And keep them for a birth more happily
        Born under better auspices, refined
        Into a heavenly form of nobler mind,
        And dowered with all thine angel purity.
Ah me! and may heaven also keep my sighs,
        My scattered tears preserve and reunite,
        And give to him who loves that fair again!
More happy he perchance shall move those eyes
        To mercy by the griefs my manhood blight,
        Nor lose the kindness that from me is ta'en!

Scarco d' un' importuna.


Freed from a burden sore and grievous band,
        Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied,
        Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side,
        As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land.
Thy thorns, Thy nails, and either bleeding hand,
        With Thy mild gentle piteous face, provide
        Promise of help and mercies multiplied,
        And hope that yet my soul secure may stand.
Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see
        My evil past, Thy chastened ears to hear
        And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime:
Let Thy blood only lave and succour me,
        Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer,
        As older still I grow with lengthening time.

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.

Se 'l foco alla bellezza.


If but the fire that lightens in thine eyes
        Were equal with their beauty, all the snow
        And frost of all the world would melt and glow
        Like brands that blaze beneath fierce tropic skies.
But heaven in mercy to our miseries
        Dulls and divides the fiery beams that flow
        From thy great loveliness, that we may go
        Through this stern mortal life in tranquil wise.
Thus beauty burns not with consuming rage;
        For so much only of the heavenly light
        Inflames our love as finds a fervent heart.
This is my case, lady, in sad old age:
        If seeing thee, I do not die outright,
        'Tis that I feel thy beauty but in part.

Passa per gli occhi.


Swift through the eyes unto the heart within
        All lovely forms that thrall our spirit stray;
        So smooth and broad and open is the way
        That thousands and not hundreds enter in.
Burdened with scruples and weighed down with sin,
        These mortal beauties fill me with dismay;
        Nor find I one that doth not strive to stay
        My soul on transient joy, or lets me win
The heaven I yearn for. Lo, when erring love--
        Who fills the world, howe'er his power we shun,
        Else were the world a grave and we undone--
Assails the soul, if grace refuse to fan
        Our purged desires and make them soar above,
        What grief it were to have been born a man!

Passa per gli occhi.


Swift through the eyes unto the heart within
        All lovely forms that thrall our spirit stray;
        So smooth and broad and open is the way
        That thousands and not hundreds enter in
Of every age and sex: whence I begin,
        Burdened with griefs, but more with dull dismay,
        To fear; nor find mid all their bright array
        One that with full content my heart may win.
If mortal beauty be the food of love,
        It came not with the soul from heaven, and thus
        That love itself must be a mortal fire:
But if love reach to nobler hopes above,
        Thy love shall scorn me not nor dread desire
        That seeks a carnal prey assailing us.

Non è sempre di colpa.


Love is not always harsh and deadly sin:
        If it be love of loveliness divine,
        It leaves the heart all soft and infantine
        For rays of God's own grace to enter in.
Love fits the soul with wings, and bids her win
        Her flight aloft nor e'er to earth decline;
        'Tis the first step that leads her to the shrine
        Of Him who slakes the thirst that burns within.
The love of that whereof I speak, ascends:
        Woman is different far; the love of her
        But ill befits a heart all manly wise.
The one love soars, the other downward tends;
        The soul lights this, while that the senses stir,
        And still his arrow at base quarry flies.