The Complete Poems of Michelangelo: Joseph Tusiani's Classic Translation 9781487543648

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THE LORENZO DA PONTE ITALIAN LIBRARY

The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

JOSEPH TUSIANI’S CLASSIC TRANSLATION EDITED BY GIANLUCA RIZZO

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

THE LORENZO DA PONTE ITALIAN LIBRARY General Editor Luigi Ballerini, University of California at Los Angeles, Emeritus Associate Editor Gianluca Rizzo, Colby College Honorary Chairs Ambassador Gianfranco Facco Bonetti Dr. Berardo Paradiso Honourable Anthony J. Scirica Advisory Board Lina Bolzoni, Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa Francesco Bruni, Università di Venezia Franca D'Agostini, Università di Milano Giorgio Ficara, Università di Torino Hermann Haller, City University of New York Giuseppe Mazzotta, Yale University Nicoletta Pireddu, Georgetown University Gilberto Pizzamiglio, Università di Venezia Margaret Rosenthal, University of Southern California John Scott, University of Western Australia Elissa Weaver, University of Chicago Agincourt Ltd. Board of Trustees Luigi Ballerini Giuseppe Brusa Vivian Cardia Maria Teresa Cometto Fabio Finotti Lorenzo Mannelli Eugenio Nardelli Berardo Paradiso Gianluca Rizzo Nicola Tegoni Anthony Julian Tamburri

THE COMPLETE POEMS OF MICHELANGELO Joseph Tusiani’s Classic Translation

Though known primarily as a sculptor and painter, Michelangelo was also a poet. In his lifetime, Michelangelo wrote over 300 poems, many of which were works of devotion and love poems of a spiritual and mystical nature. In 1961, Joseph Tusiani offered the first English translations of the ­complete corpus of Michelangelo’s poems. These translations illuminated the subtleties of both the source and target language, ­ ­giving ­Michelangelo’s verse a freshness, a depth, and an inventiveness that time has not been able to obscure. The Complete Poems of Michelangelo reproduces Tusiani’s masterful translation. In addition to Tusiani’s introduction and translations, this new edition contains Michelangelo’s original Italian poetry, a c­ hronology of his life and works, a biographical profile of Tusiani, and an interview with Tusiani exploring his musings on classic literature and the subtle art of translation. The Complete Poems of Michelangelo sheds light on T ­ usiani’s many exceptional accomplishments during his long and prolific life as a scholar, poet, translator, and artist. (Lorenzo Da Ponte Italian Library) michelangelo buonarroti was an Italian sculptor, painter, a­ rchitect, and poet of the High Renaissance. joseph tusiani was a professor emeritus at the Herbert H. Lehman College of the City University of New York. gianluca rizzo is the Paul D. and Marilyn Paganucci Associate Professor of Italian Language and Literature at Colby College.

© University of Toronto Press 2023 Toronto Buffalo London utorontopress.com Printed in the U.S.A. ISBN 978-1-4875-4361-7 (cloth)   ISBN 978-1-4875-4363-1 (EPUB) ISBN 978-1-4875-4362-4 (paper)   ISBN 978-1-4875-4364-8 (PDF) The Lorenzo Da Ponte Italian Library This volume is published under the aegis and the financial assistance of Agincourt Press Ltd.

UNESCO COLLECTION OF REPRESENTATIVE WORKS. ITALIAN SERIES - This book has been accepted in the Italian Series of the Translations Collection of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The complete poems of Michelangelo : Joseph Tusiani’s classic translation / edited by Gianluca Rizzo. Names: Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1475–1564, author. | container of (work): Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1475–1564. Poems. | container of (expression): Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1475–1564. Poems. English. (Tusiani) | Tusiani, Joseph, 1924– translator. | Rizzo, Gianluca, editor. Series: Lorenzo da Ponte Italian library. Description: Series statement: The Lorenzo Da Ponte Italian library | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Poems in English translation and original Italian; additional text in English. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220410925 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220410933 | ISBN 9781487543617 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781487543624 (softcover) | ISBN 9781487543631 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781487543648 (PDF) Subjects: LCSH: Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1475–1564 – Translations into English. | LCSH: Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1475–1564 – Translations into English – History and criticism. | LCGFT: Poetry. Classification: LCC PQ4615.B6 A27 2023 | DDC 851/.4–dc23 We wish to acknowledge the land on which the University of Toronto Press operates. This land is the traditional territory of the Wendat, the Anishnaabeg, the Haudenosaunee, the Métis, and the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario, for its publishing activities.

Contents

Justified Envy: An Editor’s Note  vii gianluca rizzo Part One Introduction to The Complete Poems of Michelangelo 3 joseph tusiani Rime/Poems 17 A Chronology of Michelangelo’s Life  246 A General Bibliography on Michelangelo’s Literary Output  252 Part Two Joseph Tusiani: A Biographical Profile  265 anthony julian tamburri “The Michelangelo Man”: An Interview with Joseph Tusiani, New York City, 19 October 2019  269 gianluca rizzo

Notes  279 List of First Lines in Italian  307 List of First Lines in English  323

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Justified Envy: An Editor’s Note gianluca rizzo

A humbling form of envy seems to be the only appropriate emotional response when contemplating the life and works of Michelangelo Buonarroti. The achievements of the man are such that they can only be seen as a perpetual indictment of the bland and feeble lives we average people seem to lead. How can one fail to admire the sprawling imagination behind the Sistine Chapel; or gasp at the upward pull exercised by St. Peter’s Dome; or be entranced by the subtle aesthetic trickery of the Pietà; or be deafened by the daunting, primeval scream that’s eternally on the verge of escaping the Prigioni? How can one not be in awe of eightyeight monumental years spent in unrelenting pursuit of independence, intelligence, and sensibility? Perhaps some small consolation can be found in the words of Mark Twain, who, in his The Innocents Abroad (chapter 27), famously describes his encounter with Michelangelo’s oeuvre while traveling in Italy: In Genoa, he designed everything; in Milan he or his pupils designed everything; he designed the Lake of Como; in Padua, Verona, Venice, Bologna, who did we ever hear of, from guides, but Michael Angelo? In Florence, he painted everything, designed everything, nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone. In Pisa he designed everything but the old shottower, and they would have attributed that to him if it had not been so awfully out of the perpendicular. He designed the piers of Leghorn and the custom house regulations of Civita Vecchia. But, here – here it is frightful. He designed St. Peter’s; he designed the Pope; he designed the Pantheon, the uniform of the Pope’s soldiers, the Tiber, the Vatican, the Coliseum, the Capitol, the Tarpeian Rock, the Barberini Palace, St. John Lateran, the Campagna, the Appian Way, the Seven Hills, the Baths of Caracalla, the

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Claudian Aqueduct, the Cloaca Maxima – the eternal bore designed the Eternal City, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted everything in it! Dan said the other day to the guide, “Enough, enough, enough! Say no more! Lump the whole thing! say that the Creator made Italy from designs by Michael Angelo!” I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael Angelo was dead.1

Envy is definitely the only reasonable answer. And it doesn’t help our self-esteem that the master was also a first-rate poet; one can only agree with Francesco Berni when, in his “Capitolo a Fra Bastian dal Piombo,” he famously declared: Ho visto qualche sua composizione: son ignorante, e pur direi d’avelle lette tutte nel mezzo di Platone; sì ch’egli è nuovo Apollo e nuovo Apelle: tacete unquanco, pallide viole e liquidi cristalli e fiere snelle: e’ dice cose e voi dite parole.2 [I’ve seen a few of his compositions: I’m ignorant, yet I’d say I’ve seen them all before in Plato’s works; he’s a new Apollo, a new Apelles: be quiet for once, you pale violets and liquid crystals and lithe beasts: he says things while you say words.]

Michelangelo’s poetic concepts have the same urgency as reality itself. But where does that leave us? What can one do to overcome the undesirable effects of that envy that is growing in our chests? One could translate these poems, and make the masterpieces he brought into this world accessible to as many people as possible. This being the only reasonable course of action, we are particularly glad that another talented and gifted poet has already done the work: Joseph Tusiani, the “Michelangelo man” himself. All that’s left to do is reissue his translations, augmented by a few updates, aided by a handful of additional documents and paratextual apparatuses, so that the contemporary reader may enjoy them even more. But why Tusiani’s translation? By now, there are several others available to the discerning public.



Justified Envy

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The short answer is, when it comes to translating from Italian, Joseph Tusiani is in a category of his own. Beginning in the 1960s, he gave to the English-speaking world excellent renditions of those canonical Italian classics that, for one reason or another, had not yet been translated. Furthermore, Tusiani displays an excellent ear for the subtleties of both source and target language, which gives his verse a freshness, a depth, and an inventiveness that time has not been able to dull or obscure. The impact of these translations was enormous when they first came out, and thus one can be confident that today’s readers will welcome them back with equal enthusiasm. The longer answer is discernible, as if in filigree, throughout the whole book: Tusiani’s lifelong commitment to poetry, both as a writer and as a teacher. This double passion can be found in his original introduction and notes, here reproduced in their entirety. In reissuing Prof. Joseph Tusiani’s translations, titled The Complete Poems of Michelangelo,3 we retained his introduction and his notes to the poems, while making two main changes to the volume he had originally designed: first, we added the facing original in Italian; second, we changed the order in which the poems are given. This new sequence reflects the (relatively) recent advances in philology and in the study of Michelangelo’s autographs. Tusiani, as he indicates in his own introduction, had followed Karl Frey’s edition of Michelangelo’s Rime, which dates back to 1897. Instead, we used here the edition by Enzo Noè Girardi, which dates back to 1960. The Complete Poems was published that same year, and thus Tusiani did not have access to Girardi’s updated edition;4 however, the two reflect a very precise moment in the history of Michelangelo’s critical reception. Both Tusiani’s original numbering and Girardi’s are provided, the latter preceded by the letter “G” and the former by the letter “T.” The opening sonnet in this volume, for instance, is marked as “G 2; T 22.”5 The second part of the volume offers to the readers a few essential tools: a chronology of the principal events of Michelangelo’s life as well as the major highlights of contemporary Italian history, to help them situate Michelangelo more broadly within European history, and a general bibliography of Michelangelo’s literary works, to aid them in the exploration of the recent scholarly debate. The last section is dedicated to the celebration of Joseph Tusiani’s intellectual legacy. Anthony Tamburri offers an informative biographical profile of the maestro, while an interview allows the reader to “hear” directly the voice of the poet and translator explaining the origins of his singular moniker (“the Michelangelo man,” coined by no less a personage than JFK) and recounting, in an informal and convivial context, some of his accomplishments over the course of a long and productive career.

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PART ONE

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo translated into verse with notes and introduction by joseph tusiani

Introduction Michelangelo’s poems did not pass unnoticed in his lifetime. They “sounded” utterly different from the general poetic trend of the ­century – an over-musical current of Platonism and Petrarchism. Composers such as Arcadelt and Tromboncino had set them to music; men of letters such as Benedetto Varchi and Francesco Berni had praised them. Yet those madrigals and sonnets lacked the sonority of Bembo’s verse and seemed to envy the fluency of Vittoria Colonna’s spiritual rhymes and the refinement of Molza’s, or Alamanni’s, descriptive ease. Both Varchi and Berni had understood, almost instinctively, that the new voice, though rude and rugged, was almost Dantesque in the vastness of its echoes. Enough of you, sweet pallid violets. And liquid crystals, and fair beasts astray: You babble words, but only he writes thoughts.

These lines, part of a capitolo which Berni sent to Sebastiano del Piombo, are typical of the half-humorous, half-sneering nature of their author. But in their succinctness they give an impeccable portrayal of the literary situation of the Renaissance in Italy. With Ariosto the language had achieved its greatest significance, for every word had been filtered through the magic of his genius. After the Orlando Furioso there was the heritage of a glorious idiom without another magician who could give it new life and new resonance. In the years that followed (until Tasso) many wrote verse but few wrote poetry. The latter was relegated, it seemed, to the accessible realm of

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felicitous sound and pictorial detail. The soul was missing, for even man’s soul had been lent easy wings by Ficino’s re-interpretation of Plato which had started in Florence around Lorenzo the Magnificent. The humanistic breath had become too violent a storm not to sever all human links with the earth and its deepest conflicts. Because of political disasters Italy was bleeding from innumerable wounds, yet countless sonneteers found joy, and perhaps refuge, in the remembrance of Laura’s golden tresses. Petrarch became a god while Dante was neglected or only remembered as a stern moralist of the past. The reason was simple: the boisterous exaltation of the former and the silent condemnation of the latter explained the very soul of the Renaissance. The Canzoniere and the Comedy could not meet, for Laura and Beatrice could never become one. And there was more than that. Dante had left a city and lost “all things most dearly loved” to force open all sounding heavens and capture an echo of them; Petrarch had to meet princes and popes to find out none was worth his splendid page. To Dante life was love to live and fight for; to Petrarch it was love to write about. Thus the Canzoniere was rediscovered by many who had learned to imitate Petrarch’s voice, though not his soul. Imagine now a deluge of sonnets in which recur green, sweet hills, solitary shores, desperate tears, burning darts, fresh waters, stars and nightingales. To all this add Plato and his concept of love and beauty, and you will understand the meaning of Berni’s lines and the sincerity of his praise of Michelangelo’s “thoughts.” Even when honoured by inclusion in the Florentine Academy, Michelangelo did not consider himself a poet, for he knew his verse to be “unprofessional, rude and rough.” It was exactly the awareness of his lack of musical feeling that kept him apart from those who deemed music the only poetry possible, and made him find a friend in Dante. A scene from Longfellow’s Michael Angelo shows our Titan reading the Comedy and conversing with the great Florentine he loved. More than the coincidence of the “same nest,” other factors strengthened that spiritual kinship. Michelangelo had the same power of vision, the same consciousness of sin and human frailty, the same need of God, the same concept of life and death, and the same understanding of art and love. The fiery sermons of Savonarola, which he had heard in his youth, had kept Dante’s sublime song of penance alive in his mind and, more, in his heart. Something in him had remained medieval for something in him was Dantesque. Yet he too had to burn his grain of incense on the altar of Petrarch; he too was, then, at times, artificial and fond of conceits and preciosities. Surrounded as he was by Petrarchists, he could not escape their influence. He even asked them to polish this or that of his sonnets, to

Introduction 5

retouch this or that of his madrigals; a very common thing, this candid admission of incompetence, among the writers of the Renaissance. Even Cellini, for instance, will want to submit the manuscript of his Vita to Benedetto Varchi. But Michelangelo’s poems could neither be polished nor retouched. Even when on the brink of the commonplace, or lost in the dry meanderings of imitation, Michelangelo could not be called a perfect Petrarchist, for he lacked the very secret of Petrarchism – musicality and smoothness. His verse was at times too ungrammatical to be aided and sped towards the gentle fashion of love poetry. Yet it was not dismissed. It had strength and massiveness. To soften it was to kill it. His madrigals, for example, said more or less what Petrarch had sung, but they had, in the conclusive couplet, a marmoreal quality that made one forget the weakness of their poetic nucleus. It was as though impersonal emotions became suddenly personal and acquired a marble rigidity or, rather, a monumental solemnity. Neither Bembo nor Della Casa had ever been capable of so powerful a voice as this (G 130; T 109-28): And loss eternal does not scare at all: One moment cannot make two decades fall;

or (G 123; T 109-14) Great happiness can bear great misery;

or (G 124; T 109-15) A future bliss makes present sorrows light;

or (G 150; T 109-100) Weak virtue dies at fortune’s lavish touch.

Michelangelo’s handling of the couplet in most of his madrigals prefigures Shakespeare. Was it such strength that tempted more than one composer, or perhaps the fact that music could do more with roughness than it could with elegance of verse which in itself was music? Michelangelo’s fame cannot be the answer, for there was hardly an artist of the Renaissance who, in moments of otium, did not exchange the pain of the brush for the pleasure of the pen. Even in the case of Michelangelo, as of all poets, there is a high and low tide of inspiration. He is at his worst when he uses tools that are not

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his own, or re-echoes Dante’s Vita Nuova and Petrarch’s Canzoniere. The flame of his inspiration depends, then, on another flame; his images cannot take wing but are linked to the old imagery of Love’s bow and arrows, of the phoenix, of the salamander, and similar devices. Though often on the verge of true poetry, he is not himself yet. But when Michelangelo forgets arrows and bow, salamander and phoenix, his poetry is titanic and unique and he is once more the Michelangelo we know. This happens, that is, whenever his own heart becomes the subject of his poems and the fetters of erudition are broken loose by the hammer of his individuality. The expression may sound baroque but is not. Hammer and stone become the new, powerful image of Renaissance poetry, into which Michelangelo’s soul enters not as song but as sense of Greek fate and Christian faith. To understand how Michelangelo finds himself in the world of his own heart, one has but to read his poems for Vittoria Colonna, the Marquise of Pescara. They range from embarrassing imitation to sheer sublimity. When Michelangelo sees his lady through the eyes of Petrarch or Dante, he only says what a Bembo could express with greater felicity of mood and accent (G 34; T 92): Love, when my spirit did from God depart, Made me pure glance, and you, light’s destiny: That is the reason God I seek and see In what of you, alas, time wears apart.

This is true even of his madrigals for the Marquise of Pescara. Michelangelo can say of her (G 89; T 109-19): My only will is in your will alone, My very thoughts are born within your heart, And only in your breath my words can be. If left alone, I am just like the moon: Of all its light our eyes can see a part – Only that much the sun grants us to see.

But he is not himself until he finds inspiration within, not around, him. When he does, he writes these lines (G 153; T 109-61): Just as an empty form Awaits its gold or silver liquefied, And, broken, then reveals The perfect work; thus, I can only fill

Introduction 7 With inner fire of love my void and need Of the immortal beauty of my lady, Both mind and heart of these my fragile days. Through such a narrow space Her gentleness and love pour into me, That, to draw forth her perfect image, I Must agonize and die.

The very death of Vittoria is the subject of both a celebration and a tragedy. The celebration is done in terms of Petrarchan fashion: ­ ­triumph of fame over death, of time over fame, and of eternity over time. That Michelangelo was not satisfied with these echoes that failed to convey the sorrow of his loss, is proved by the fact that he even repeated a thought with which, ten years earlier, he had celebrated young ­Cecchino ­Bracci’s death (G 179-228; T 73). He knew that no Petrarchan image, either from the second part of the Canzoniere or from all I Trionfi, sufficed to express his colossal suffering. So, one day, he forgot Petrarch and ­Petrarchists and wrote this sonnet (G 46; T 101): If my rough hammer gives a human face To this or that of all hard blocks that wait, It is another smith makes me create, Controlling each my motion, each my pace. But that high hammer beyond stars and space Makes self, and others, with each stroke, more great And bright; and since the first must generate All hammers, that gives life to all, always. And since the most effective is that blow Which falls from highest in the smithy, mine Shall fall no more – my hammer having flown. Now here am I, unskilled, and do not know How to go on, unless the smith divine Teaches me how, who am on earth alone.

This vision of death, snatching the happy hammer from the uplifted hand of a smith, is new. And this is Michelangelo for no one else could have written such a powerful poem. We know now what to look for in the production of this poet – that unmistakable force of vision and emotion which is to the Renaissance what a sudden thunderstorm is to the monotony of a dry summer. And we do not have long to wait for such violence of ideas, for ­Michelangelo’s nature, though tender at its core, can only reveal itself

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through a gigantic explosion of moods. After poems in which inspiration seems to drag, we shall once more find the poet who becomes his own poem. It can be in the bitter description of the physical torture during and after his work in the Sistine Chapel (G 5; T 9). It can be in the monstrosity of the giant who, with his one eye beneath the heel, sees the past flow underground and is breast-fed by a huge, lurid hag who tosses seas and mountains into her stomach (G 68; T 69). Or we find Michelangelo whenever the word “night” is mentioned. This is another of his new, great images. He calls himself “son of the night,” his art, “fruit of the night.” Darkness to him is not the termination of light, but life itself. We walk, he says, from dark into dark, yet this creates our greatness, for, though vast and frightening, night is, in turn, frightened by our deeds of splendor (G 101; T 77). Wrong are all those who praise her qualities: She is so dark, lost, lonely, that the birth Of one small firefly can make war on her;

and (G 104; T 109-21) The night they gave to me and to my art That very day my body met my soul. Now like the one who blames his destiny, As night grows darker since it has begun, I, darker with the night, bemoan my fate. And yet, one thought is dear and comforts me – To warm my darkest hour within that sun Which on your birth was given you as mate.

The fundamental notes in Michelangelo’s poetry are four – love of beauty, art, old age, and God. The four motifs seem to constitute the rational development of his personality, yet they are intermingled, so much so that any attempt at a chronological analysis will prove futile. Much has been written about Michelangelo’s loves. It would be better, and certainly more cautious, to speak of his love, for it is possible to reconcile his ardent admiration for Tommaso Cavalieri, Febo del Poggio, Gherardo Perini, and Cecchino Bracci, with his equally ardent adoration of Vittoria Colonna. To Michelangelo beauty was one, whether he caught a glimpse of it in Vittoria’s “sweet and holy eyes” or whether he found it in the ephebic harmony of a male body. Love to him was therefore a state of grace, an exaltation of all his energies, spiritual and physical, a path of light, like that of his firefly, in the vast darkness of life. But even in that state of grace he was still linked to his human, conventional

Introduction 9

terms of flesh and hunger, wood and fire. Other poets were able to control both struggle and elevation by their sense of literary proportion; Michelangelo could not, for his deepest feelings were always immense (G 90; T 109-95). Now with your splendor printed on my face, I go like one who, dressed with every kind Of amulets and arms, can dare all wars. I can walk on the ocean, brave all blaze, Give in your name the light to all the blind, And my saliva heals all poisonous sores.

Love has become religion and the one in love yearns for Christ’s miraculous power to feel complete. It does not matter, then, whether these lines were written for Tommaso Cavalieri or Vittoria Colonna. We must expect far more than this, for Michelangelo the poet and Michelangelo the painter of the “Last Judgment” are exactly the same person. That terribilità of which Vasari spoke is to be found even in his best poems. Take, for instance, the sonnet (G 94; T 66) in which the simile of the silkworm turns immediately into something apparently monstrous and macabre. Would that I were – my hairy skin alone – The skin that makes with its soft hairs a plate (O happy dress!) around his handsome breast All day! Were I two slippers he could own And use as base to his majestic weight! I would enjoy two snowy feet at least.

What seems torrid sensuality is only violence of thought and emotion, for, even when he paints, Michelangelo remains a sculptor. Sculpture is the second main note in his poetry. He reminds Giovanni, “the one from Pistoia,” (G 5; T 9) of the fact that he, Michelangelo, is not a painter. More than once he likes to add to his signature the qualification, “scultore.” Sculpture is “the first of the arts” because God was a sculptor, not a painter, when he created Adam. Michelangelo will consequently associate with painting all the minor manifestations of his intellect, but only with sculpture the major activities of his soul. In the moving poem on the death of his father (G 86; T 58), in which he also mourns the loss of a younger brother, he writes: My brother is now painted in my mind, But you are sculpted in my deepest heart, And on my face is weeping all mankind.

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It is mostly in his poems to Vittoria Colonna that he reveals the secret of his art (G 236; T 134): After the divine part has well conceived Man’s face and gesture, soon both mind and hand, With a cheap model, first, at their command, Give life to stone ...

Her image he wants to bring, engraved in his soul, to the angels in heaven, so that they learn to make for the world another face as beautiful as hers (G 264; T 109-103). And of Vittoria Colonna he says in a superb line (G 63; T 109-88): No iron chisel carves me – one of gold.

Michelangelo was sixty-three years old when he met Vittoria Colonna. His greatest poetry therefore was written in his old age. On September 19, 1554 (he was close to his eightieth birthday) he sent this note to Vasari: “Messer Giorgio, dear friend, you too perhaps will say that I am an old fool for wanting to write sonnets; but since many people accuse me of senility, it is my duty to write.” With these words he accompanied one of his greatest poems (G 285; T 147). His “duty” was then to show that he was not usurping life, as if his work as papal architect were not enough to justify his presence among the living. Those who saw him ride to Saint Peter’s almost every day, even when he was eighty-eight, could not guess the struggle of his soul with fear of death and hell. Old age was to him the most tragic period of man’s life. Deeply religious, he was tormented by the terror of two deaths – of the body and of the soul. A retrospective glance on his life made him discover with horror a long existence “full of puppets” and spent for others, not for his God. Even art seemed futile and, worse yet, sinful (G 285; T 147). Painting no more, nor sculpture, can now quiet My soul, turned to that Love divine that, here, To take us, opened its arms on a cross and bled.

The question whether the Council of Trent with all its implications might have brought Michelangelo’s consciousness of sin to its deepest exacerbation is of little import. Michelangelo was colossal even in his conversation with death and God. Unlike Dante he was not a theologian. Though he “read and read” the Holy Scriptures, his knowledge of religion was limited and intransigent. He knew and believed what his

Introduction 11

father had known and believed: that man is born in sin and must cling to the Cross of Christ to obtain eternal salvation, and that he who loses his soul, loses all. Death, fear of hell, temptations of the flesh, cross, redemption – these are the themes of Michelangelo’s last poems, in which one hears both a wounded lion roaring in the night and a child crying for his mother. A blade of grass withers unnoticed; an oak falls with a thunder. Michelangelo could not surrender to death without a fierce, long struggle (G APPENDICE 24; T 166-6): This is the way Daedalus arose, This is the way the sun rejects the shadow.

It was the afternoon of February 18, 1564. Michelangelo, the greatest lyric poet of the Renaissance, had been convinced by some of his closest friends to prepare for the printer the poems that he liked best. With some reluctance he finally chose the one hundred and five which in this collection constitute No. 109.1 The publication, however, did not take place. And now begins a story which is both comic and tragic. In 1623 Michelangelo’s grandnephew, known in Italian literature as Michelangelo Buonarroti junior, decided to publish his famous granduncle’s poems. The book came out in Florence with an unassuming title, Rime di Michelagnolo Buonarroti. Yet that first edition concealed, or perhaps betrayed, both love and deceit. In his dedication to Cardinal Maffeo Barberini the grandnephew told His Eminence that he intended “to give luster to another crown of his (Michelangelo’s) glories, especially because painting, in which he was so great, and poetry bear a close resemblance and union.” The implication was subtle: had Michelangelo not excelled in painting, he would not have published that book. The dedication was followed by these words of warning to his readers: “Since several poems of Michelagnolo Buonarroti, both published and unpublished, go around with many mistakes, we inform our readers that, having compared the text of his compositions which is kept in the Vatican Library – most of it in the author’s own hand – with all those poems of his which are the property of his heirs and of other persons in Florence, we have chosen the most adequate and definitive variants, for many others are extant which are improbable and not clear, and look like the first rough draft of an unsatisfied pen; and we have omitted those works which, though quoted fragmentarily by writers here and there and particularly by Varchi, have not been found in their integral form. It is our desire, however, to let you see those too, as soon as we are able to find them in their entirety. Be happy.” Another important

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

detail was the “Imprimatur” with which the volume appeared – two full pages stating in solemn terms that there was nothing in that book which offended either the Catholic religion or true morality. Michelangelo junior had thought that some poems had to be slightly revised to be accepted without malicious rumor. He was, of course, too intelligent not to understand that his granduncle’s Greek admiration of the male body was above suspicion; but he also knew that people were not at all Olympian in their conclusions, and times, after all, had changed. Out of prudence, then, he altered this or that masculine gender, softened this or that expression especially in the “Cavalieri” poems, without thinking that, by that very device, he was casting a new shadow of immorality upon the innocence of Michelangelo’s mind. And out of love he did something else. He realized that, being what they were, those poems had to be polished and smoothed stylistically. They were, after all, the product of one who had admitted his verse to be “unprofessional, rude and rough.” The public of 1623, he thought, was not that of the glorious Renaissance. Giambattista Marino had already published his Adone and the poet’s mission was to dazzle, not to puzzle. The triumph of the baroque expression could never tolerate poems that seemed to have no form at all. Michelangelo junior was, besides, a writer in his own right. He was the archconsul of the Crusca Academy and the author of II Natal d’Ercole, Il Giudizio di Paride, La Tancia, Ajone, and other works in verse and prose. He could and would certainly do a good job with those poems. Thus he completed an unfinished sonnet, retouched an obscure madrigal, eliminated a superfluous line, added a clarifying thought, adjusted a weak phrase, strengthened a feeble accent, and so forth. That first edition was the disastrous result of Michelangelo junior’s love and deceit. Michelangelo’s poetry had been emasculated; the uncivilized Titan had become an elegant gentleman who could even have access to the baroque parlours. And in that attire Michelangelo was officially introduced as a poet to the world. Consequently, all essays and translations based on that edition are outdated and unreliable. After two and a half centuries, in 1863, Cesare Guasti published the first critical edition of Michelangelo’s Rime, a monumental work in which each poem, rather, each line, had been fully restored to its pristine value and strength. The reconstruction of the text had been based on the most accurate analysis of Michelangelo’s autographs: a labour of love indeed, when we think that Michelangelo used to write his “thoughts,” complete or incomplete, on the reverse of drawings, beneath sketches, on letters received from various sources, and that he often asked his friends to correct his poems. Yet a work of still greater



Introduction 13

importance was done by Professor Karl Frey. In 1897 he published a new critical edition of Michelangelo’s poetry (Die Dichtungen des Michelagniolo Buonarroti herausgegeben und mit Kritishem Apparate versehen). His apparatus criticus was superb and did not compromise with some inevitable conclusions of a chronological or moral nature. Thirty-four years earlier, even Cesare Guasti had tried to convince himself that the “Cavalieri” poems were intended for Vittoria Colonna. Dr. Frey, instead, was not afraid of the truth and stressed facts and dates. On this Frey edition, which is fundamental though by no means flawless, are based all recent studies of Michelangelo’s poems (Foratti, 1921; F. Rizzi, 1924; Piccoli, 1930; Ceriello, 1954); based on it is this verse translation, the title of which should at this point be explained. The English translators of Michelangelo are not few. The list includes, to mention only the best known, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Symonds, Santayana and Newell. Wordsworth, Longfellow and Santayana did not go beyond a very small number of sonnets or madrigals. John Addington Symonds translated all the sonnets (Sonnets of Michael Angelo and Campanella, 1878) and William Wells Newell rendered into English verse both sonnets and madrigals (Sonnets and Madrigals of Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1900). The present verse translation presents, therefore, for the first time, The Complete Poems of Michelangelo, inasmuch as it adds to the sonnets and madrigals the large portion of poems never translated before – all the humorous verses, the stanzas on rustic life, the fifty epitaphs on Cecchino Bracci, the vision of the one-eyed giant, the fragments quoted in Benedetto Varchi’s Lezione, the other fragments discovered by Frey, the maligned yet beautiful terza rima on the collapse of Michelangelo’s body, the unfinished capitoli and canzoni, the unfinished sonnets and madrigals, the isolated quatrains and, incidentally, Francesco Berni’s capitolo to Sebastiano del Piombo, Porrino’s sonnet to Michelangelo, the two Beccadelli sonnets, and some variants which appear in the Notes. In the present translation, the result of several years of patient work, I have tried to do with the spirit of the poems what Frey did with the letter of the text. To translate into English Michelangelo’s marmoreal rigidity of form is absurd, for once the original obscurity is removed the idea becomes lucid in the new language. This is especially true of Michelangelo’s poetry which, because of its structural complexities, can baffle the ear of the keenest Italian reader. It was exactly such difficulty of language that made many translators fall into pitiful traps. Even a Symonds committed blunders which now appear in all their gravity (“harp” for “harpy” in Sonnet G 5; T 9). A translator of Michelangelo, then, should try to capture the power of his poetic thought, not the

14

The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

roughness of its dress. And this has hardly been done. If, for instance, in one of his moods of colossal rage Michelangelo speaks of “blood of Christ that would spurt to the stars” (Sonnet G 10; T 10), Symonds thinks of “foul sacrilege beyond report.” And if Michelangelo thinks of a “firefly” that “makes war” on night, Newell sees “a glowworm’s lantern” that “turneth her afraid.” The Italian language has, like all other languages, its own peculiarities. I will give one example. The word “sputo,” in the last line of G 90; T 109-95, should not be rendered as “spit” for it does not have the connotation of contempt which its English equivalent has. On the other hand, “saliva” not only translates the letter but also the spirit of the word by which Michelangelo refers to Christ’s miraculous action. I must now point out that, in my version of these poems, I have in some instances used an assonance for a rhyme and that, in rendering the madrigals, I have not always followed the original rhyme pattern. I had to choose, that is, between the essential fervor of a poem and the transient echo of a sound. The same criterion applies to my rendition of the couplets. Whenever I felt that a particular madrigal depended on its conclusive couplet, I kept it in my version; in other cases I took the liberty of employing an assonance, without dispersing, however, that very music which is the grace of a madrigal. Another problem that should be mentioned springs directly from the use of the Frey edition: the lack of titles and the arrangement of the poems. Many compilers of anthologies, both here and in Italy, have been fond of giving a title to a Michelangelo sonnet or madrigal. Their choice is always arbitrary, however, for it is at times impossible to think of a title that captures the full beauty of an untitled poem. In the case of Michelangelo’s verse even the first lines, if placed as titles, would only be a charming adornment and serve no purpose whatever. As to the arrangement of the poems, I have long debated whether to present them in such separate sections as Sonnets, Madrigals, Religious Poems, Humorous Verse, and Fragments. The temptation was strong, but several reasons convinced me of the danger, and even injustice, of any innovation. All the dramatic variety would have been destroyed and monotony would have been inevitable. Michelangelo himself – and this consideration eliminated all doubts – would have been against so smooth a division, judging by the poems of No. 109 in which a love sonnet is often and abruptly followed by a lofty prayer to God. Last but not least, the Frey edition seems to keep in its arrangement a plausible thread of chronology.2 From all this came the need of some notes. These are only intended to shed light on some inevitable problems of composition and inspiration. They are by no means complete. A thorough



Introduction 15

commentary on Michelangelo’s poems would require more than one volume for, as is easily understood, in most of them enters, with all its complexities of history, art and literature, the whole Renaissance. Brief as they are, these notes have been based, especially for all that pertains to the chronology of the poems, on the critical studies of Guasti, Grimm, Frey, Foratti, Rizzi, Piccoli, Ceriello and, in a few instances, on the antiquated yet still charming work of G. Biagioli, Rime di Michelagnolo Buonarroti il Vecchio (Paris, 1821). Speaking of notes, I want to express my gratitude to my friend Lydia Bonito for her arduous task of deciphering and typing them together with this Introduction. When Ariosto called Michelangelo “Michel, più che mortal, angel divino,” the painter of the Sistine Chapel had not yet fully revealed the power of his genius. Had the singer of Orlando Furioso lived long enough to see the “Last Judgment” and the greatest poetry of that “divine angel,” we wonder what higher praise he could have found as a fitting tribute. New York, Thanksgiving 1959.

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RIME/POEMS

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

Rime (G 2; T 22) Sol io ardendo all’ombra mi rimango, quand’el sol de’ suo razzi el mondo spoglia: ogni altro per piacere, e io per doglia, prostrato in terra, mi lamento e piango. (G 3; T 2) Grato e felice, a’ tuo feroci mali ostare e vincer mi fu già concesso; or lasso, il petto vo bagnando spesso contr’a mie voglia, e so quante tu vali. E se i dannosi e preteriti strali al segno del mie cor non fur ma’ presso, or puoi a colpi vendicar te stesso di que’ begli occhi, e fien tutti mortali. Da quanti lacci ancor, da quante rete vago uccelletto per maligna sorte campa molt’anni per morir po’ peggio, tal di me, donne, Amor, come vedete, per darmi in questa età più crudel morte, campato m’ha gran tempo, come veggio. (G 4; T 7) Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta di fior sopra ’ crin d’or d’una, grillanda, che l’altro inanzi l’uno all’altro manda, come ch’il primo sia a baciar la testa! Contenta è tutto il giorno quella vesta che serra ’l petto e poi par che si spanda, e quel c’oro filato si domanda le guanci’ e ’l collo di toccar non resta. Ma più lieto quel nastro par che goda, dorato in punta, con sì fatte tempre che preme e tocca il petto ch’egli allaccia. E la schietta cintura che s’annoda mi par dir seco: qui vo’ stringer sempre. Or che farebbon dunche le mie braccia?



Rime/Poems 19

Poems (G 2; T 22)3 My heart still burning, in the shade I alone Remain, when the sun takes its rays away. Others enjoy the cool; I, in dismay, Lie on the ground, and only weep and moan. (G 3; T 2)4 Having eschewed your lordship crude and sour, Grateful and glad I lived for many years, But now, alas, I too must live in tears, And recognize, to my regret, your power. Thinking your fatal arrows at no hour Could aim at this my heart, I had no fears. Take your revenge: those eyes, which love endears, Aim at and conquer and them, too, devour. After escaping many a trap and shot, A sweet and tiny bird ends in a cage To die a far worse death: O cruel lot! Thus Love, my Ladies, as you know quite well, Has spared me his distress until this age To make me perish now, as I foretell. (G 4; T 7)5 How glad that garland seems to be, and how Well shaped with blossoms, on her golden hair! Forward a bit, each flower (I would swear) Vies to be first to kiss her lucent brow. O happy dress twenty-four hours and now, Which binds the breasts and down flows debonair, And happy lace of gold which seems to care But for those cheeks and for that neck (I vow)! Look, on her breast that ribbon is most gay, Not for its beauty or its gilded edge, But for that rest right there and for that play. And that fine girdle – O sweet rendezvous – Says to itself: Right here O let me age! You understand now what my arms would do.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 5; T 9) A Giovanni, a quel propio da Pistoia. I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento, coma fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia o ver d’altro paese che si sia, c’a forza ’l ventre appicca sotto ’l mento. La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento in sullo scrigno, e ’l petto fo d’arpia, e ’l pennel sopra ’l viso tuttavia mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento. E’ lombi entrati mi son nella peccia, e fo del cul per contrapeso groppa, e ’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano. Dinanzi mi s’allunga la corteccia, e per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa, e tendomi com’arco sorïano. Però fallace e strano surge il iudizio che la mente porta, ché mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta. La mia pittura morta difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ’l mio onore, non sendo in loco bon, né io pittore. (G 6; T 3) Signor, se vero è alcun proverbio antico, questo è ben quel, che chi può mai non vuole. Tu hai creduto a favole e parole e premiato chi è del ver nimico. I’ sono e fui già tuo buon servo antico, a te son dato come e’ raggi al sole, e del mie tempo non ti incresce o dole, e men ti piaccio se più m’affatico. Già sperai ascender per la tua altezza, e ’l giusto peso e la potente spada fussi al bisogno, e non la voce d’ecco. Ma ’l cielo è quel c’ogni virtù disprezza



Rime/Poems 21

(G 5; T 9)6 To Giovanni, the one from Pistoia. I’ve developed a goiter, in this chagrin, As if I had, like cats in Lombardy, Drunk dirty water in large quantity, – Which makes the stomach bulge up to the chin. Beard to the stars, and a nape that I pin On the shoulders, a harpy’s breast – that’s me; And, dripping still, the brush, as you can see, Has made my face a floor stained out and in. Into the belly have entered my hips, And with the seat I counterpoise the hunch And, as I cannot look, in vain I go. In front, my skin is taut, and almost flips, But in the back the wrinkles make a bunch, And bent I’m walking like a Syrian bow. That is why, bent and smirched Even my thought emerges from my head: Shooting a crooked harquebus is bad. Defend my painting dead, Giovanni, and my honor which grows fainter: This place is bad; besides, I am no painter. (G 6; T 3)7 My Lord, of all our ancient proverbs, one Rings true: the means is there, but not the will. You have believed all empty words, and done Favors to foes of truth, – your only thrill. I was your faithful servant, and am still Yours as each ray is of the lofty sun: And yet the more I sweat and show my skill, The less you seem to care for what I’ve done. Because you were most high, my hope was high: I thought your justice and your might would suit My need at last, and listen to my plea. But heaven wants no worth to fructify

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo locarla al mondo, se vuol c’altri vada a prender frutto d’un arbor ch’è secco. (G 7; T 5) Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena, oilmè, oilmè, oilmè, legato e stretto, e son libero e sciolto? Se tu incateni altrui senza catena, e senza mane o braccia m’hai raccolto, chi mi difenderà dal tuo bel volto? (G 8; T 6) Come può esser ch’io non sia più mio? O Dio, o Dio, o Dio, chi m’ha tolto a me stesso, c’a me fusse più presso o più di me potessi che poss’io? O Dio, o Dio, o Dio, come mi passa el core chi non par che mi tocchi? Che cosa è questo, Amore, c’al core entra per gli occhi, per poco spazio dentro par che cresca? E s’avvien che trabocchi? (G 9; T 4) Colui che ’l tutto fe’, fece ogni parte e poi del tutto la più bella scelse, per mostrar quivi le suo cose eccelse, com’ha fatto or colla sua divin’arte. (G 10; T 10) Qua si fa elmi di calici e spade e ’l sangue di Cristo si vend’a giumelle, e croce e spine son lance e rotelle, e pur da Cristo pazïenzia cade. Ma non ci arrivi più ’n queste contrade, ché n’andre’ ’l sangue suo ’nsin alle stelle, poscia c’a Roma gli vendon la pelle, e ècci d’ogni ben chiuso le strade. S’i’ ebbi ma’ voglia a perder tesauro, per ciò che qua opra da me è partita, può quel nel manto che Medusa in Mauro;



Rime/Poems 23

On earth, if we are asked to pick a fruit From the bare branches of a barren tree. (G 7; T 5) Who is the one that draws me to you ever, Alas, alas, alas, A slave in fetters, while still free and loose? If with no chains you are indeed so clever As to enchain all men, it is no use Running away from your beautiful face. (G 8; T 6)8 How can it be I am no longer I? O my, my, my! Who robbed me of myself and thus could be Closer, of course, to me Than I myself may try? O my, my, my! How can one pierce my heart Who does not touch my skin in any way? What is it then, O Love? It seems to start In the eyes, then it stirs and burns the blood. Within, the room is narrow, yet it grows: And what if it should flood? (G 9; T 4) He who made all, created first each part, Then chose the one most beautiful and bright, To show therein the limit of his might And the divine achievement of his art. (G 10; T 10)9 Here, to make swords and helmets, war devours Our chalices, and here Christ’s blood is sold By the pint, and cross and thorns are cast into mold For shields and spears, and yet Christ’s patience showers. But let Him not return to this land of ours. For here in Rome where sin is uncontrolled His blood would spurt to the stars. His skin be sold For any price in all streets at all hours. The day I wanted to be poor, I came Right here to work: now one in his mantle does What once Medusa in Mauritania did.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo ma se alto in cielo è povertà gradita, qual fia di nostro stato il gran restauro, s’un altro segno ammorza l’altra vita?

Finis. Vostro Michelangnolo in Turchia. (G 11; T 13) Quanto sare’ men doglia il morir presto che provar mille morte ad ora ad ora, da ch’in cambio d’amarla, vuol ch’io mora! Ahi, che doglia ’nfinita sente ’l mio cor, quando li torna a mente che quella ch’io tant’amo amor non sente! Come resterò ’n vita? Anzi mi dice, per più doglia darmi, che se stessa non ama: e vero parmi. Come posso sperar di me le dolga, se se stessa non ama? Ahi trista sorte! Che fia pur ver, ch’io ne trarrò la morte? (G 12; T 11) Com’arò dunche ardire senza vo’ ma’, mio ben, tenermi ’n vita, s’io non posso al partir chiedervi aita? Que’ singulti e que’ pianti e que’ sospiri che ’l miser core voi accompagnorno, madonna, duramente dimostrorno la mia propinqua morte e ’ miei martiri. Ma se ver è che per assenzia mai mia fedel servitù vadia in oblio, il cor lasso con voi, che non è mio.

(G 13; T 18) La fama tiene gli epitaffi a giacere; non va né inanzi né indietro, perché son morti, e el loro operare è fermo. (G 14; T 17) El Dì e la Notte parlano, e dicono: Noi abbiàno col nostro veloce corso condotto alla morte el duca Giuliano;



Rime/Poems 25

But if, above, man’s poverty is no shame. How can we stop this evil impetus Which stops in turn that other life we need? Finis. Your Michelagnolo in Turkey. (G 11; T 13)10 O sweeter much a sudden death would be, Than die each hour a thousand times for one Who wants my death, and of my love wants none! Alas, how my heart pines When I recall that her, I love so much, No gentle thought of love can ever touch! How can I live like this? Ah, just to make my sorrow worse, she says She does not love herself: it so may be. How can I ever hope she might love me If she loves not herself? Ah then, shall I – O cruel destiny – really die? (G 12; T 11)11 How shall I dare, my love, Without your presence keep myself alive, If, when I leave you, my lips do not dare Utter a word to tell you my despair? Those sobs, those sighs, those tears, With which, my lady, I brought you my heart, – Did they not tell you how my death was near, And all my bitter smart? But lest you should forget, when I am far, That I am still your servant, – as a sign Of love – O keep my heart no longer mine. (G 13; T 18)12 Fame keeps all epitaphs motionless down: She, too, is chained to those Who, being dead, can neither move nor act. (G 14; T 17)13 The Day and the Night speak and say: With our swift course we have led Duke Giuliano to death.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo è ben giusto che e’ ne facci vendetta come fa. E la vendetta è questa: che avendo noi morto lui, lui così morto ha tolta la luce a noi e cogli occhi chiusi ha serrato e’ nostri, che non risplendon più sopra la terra. Che arrebbe di noi dunche fatto, mentre vivea? (G 15; T 19) Di te me veggo e di lontan mi chiamo per appressarm’al ciel dond’io derivo, e per le spezie all’esca a te arrivo, come pesce per fil tirato all’amo. E perc’un cor fra dua fa picciol segno di vita, a te s’è dato ambo le parti; ond’io resto, tu ’l sai, quant’io son, poco. E perc’un’alma infra duo va ’l più degno, m’è forza, s’i’ voglio esser, sempre amarti; ch’i’ son sol legno, e tu se’ legno e foco.

(G 16; T 21) D’un oggetto leggiadro e pellegrino, d’un fonte di pietà nasce ’l mie male. (G 17; T 12) Crudele, acerbo e dispietato core, vestito di dolcezza e d’amar pieno, tuo fede al tempo nasce, e dura meno c’al dolce verno non fa ciascun fiore. Muovesi ’l tempo, e compartisce l’ore al viver nostr’un pessimo veneno; lu’ come falce e no’ siàn come fieno, ………… La fede è corta e la beltà non dura, ma di par seco par che si consumi, come ’l peccato tuo vuol de’ mie danni. ………… ………… sempre fra noi fare’ con tutti gli anni. (G 18; T 14) Mille rimedi invan l’anima tenta:



Rime/Poems 27

Now it is right that he should take his revenge as he does. And his revenge is this: Because we have killed him, He, being dead, has stolen the light from us and, by closing his eyes, Has closed our own, which now no longer shine on the earth. What, then, would he have done for us, if alive?

(G 15; T 19)14 I call my distant self, when you I see To speed it home to heaven, which you are; And as a fish to its bait in the sea, I rush to your beauty that beacons, a star. But since a heart, if cut in two, lives not, Mine gives itself to you, entire and free: So, you know well how little is left to me. And since a soul, between two goals, cannot But choose the better, with you I must be If to live, not to die, is my desire: For I am simply wood, but you are fire. (G 16; T 21)15 From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain Of all delight, my every pain is born. (G 17; T 12)16 Your heart is only merciless deceit, Though well it hides its inner bitterness. Your word, a thing of time, can last far less Than a fair blossom when the spring is sweet. Time in its speed assigns the hours that fleet, – The most effective poisonous distress Of life (a sickle for the hay, unless ………… A human word is empty, beauty brief, And they seem destined to fade out together, Just as your sin together with my fears ………… ………… It would have to be so, throughout our years. (G 18; T 14)17 The soul attempts a thousand remedies,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo poi ch’i’ fu’ preso alla prestina strada, di ritornare endarno s’argomenta. Il mare e ’l monte e ’l foco colla spada: in mezzo a questi tutti insieme vivo. Al monte non mi lascia chi m’ha privo dell’intelletto e tolto la ragione. (G 19; T 15) Natura ogni valore di donna o di donzella fatto ha per imparare, insino a quella c’oggi in un punto m’arde e ghiaccia el core. Dunche nel mie dolore non fu tristo uom più mai; l’angoscia e ’l pianto e ’ guai, a più forte cagion maggiore effetto. Così po’ nel diletto non fu né fie di me nessun più lieto. (G 20; T 37 and T 167) Tu ha’ ’l viso più dolce che la sapa, e passato vi par sù la lumaca, tanto ben lustra, e più bel c’una rapa; e’ denti bianchi come pastinaca, in modo tal che invaghiresti ’l papa; e gli occhi del color dell’utriaca; e’ cape’ bianchi e biondi più che porri: ond’io morrò, se tu non mi soccorri. La tua bellezza par molto più bella che uomo che dipinto in chiesa sia: la bocca tua mi par una scarsella di fagiuo’ piena, si com’è la mia; le ciglia paion tinte alla padella e torte più c’un arco di Sorìa; le gote ha’ rosse e bianche, quando stacci, come fra cacio fresco e’ rosolacci. ………… Quand’io ti veggo, in su ciascuna poppa mi paion duo cocomer in un sacco, ond’io m’accendo tutto come stoppa, bench’io sia dalla zappa rotto e stracco. Pensa: s’avessi ancor la bella coppa, ti seguirrei fra l’altre me’ c’un bracco;



Rime/Poems 29

In vain. Since I was caught in the old wood, I tried and tried to save myself; but seas And flames and mountains are forbidding sword. With all of these I must now live. No coast Can I reach evermore, for I have lost Both intellect and reason. (G 19; T 15)18 Nature was right to place In the heart of a woman (sweet device!) All beauty and all grace: Both I now see in the one who today Keeps me in flame and ice. Therefore, more than I have, No one has suffered yet, For, the greater the cause, the greater is The effect. But then, my rapture and my bliss Are such as no one ever tries to guess. (G 20; T 37)19 Oh, your face is much sweeter than mustard, Fairer than turnip. A snail has pushed its vehicle On it, and made it as it is – so lustered. Your teeth are parsnip-white, and your sweet giggle Would doubtless turn the Pope’s heart into custard. Your eyes are just as colorful as treacle, Your hair is blond and white like bulbs of leeks: Oh make me live! That’s all my spirit seeks. Your beauty seems to me more beautiful Than some old holy man painted in church. To me your mouth looks like a big bag full Of beans, just like my purse after the purchase. Your lashes bear the black of some kitchen tool And are more crooked than an Assyrian bow. Your cheeks resemble, when you make the bread, Two poppies on fresh cheese, – so white and red. ………… What of your hands, your arms, your neck, the rest? Your ugliest part – for others is the best.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo dunche s’i massi aver fussi possibile, io fare’ oggi qui cose incredibile.

(G 21; T 136) Chiunche nasce a morte arriva nel fuggir del tempo; e ’l sole niuna cosa lascia viva. Manca il dolce e quel che dole e gl’ingegni e le parole; e le nostre antiche prole al sole ombre, al vento un fummo. Come voi uomini fummo, lieti e tristi, come siete; e or siàn, come vedete, terra al sol, di vita priva. Ogni cosa a morte arriva.



Rime/Poems 31

(G 20; T 167)20 Oh, your face is much sweeter than mustard, Fairer than turnip. A snail has pushed its vehicle On it, and made it as it is – so lustered. Your teeth are parsnip-white, and your sweet giggle Would doubtless turn the Pope’s heart into custard. Your eyes are just as colorful as treacle, Your hair is blond and white like bulbs of leeks: Oh, make me live! That’s all my spirit seeks. Your beauty seems to me more beautiful Than some old holy man painted in church. To me your mouth looks like a big bag full Of beans, just like my purse after the purchase. Your lashes bear the black of some kitchen tool And are more crooked than an Assyrian bow. Your cheeks resemble, when you make the bread, Two poppies on fresh cheese, so white and red. When I behold your teats so sharp and steep, I think of two cucumbers in a sack, And soon take flame like flax, around and deep. Although the hoe, alas, has bent my back, I swear that, just to have once more your cup, You I would chase, more swiftly than a pack Of hounds. Oh oh, if that were still available, Right now I would do here something incredible. ………… (G 21; T 136)21 All men born to death arrive With time fleeting, and the sun Nothing nothing leaves alive. Joy and sorrow swiftly run, Words and thoughts and actions done, And all those who lived before Are but shade and mist – no more. Just like you, alive were we, And, like you, both sad and gay: We are now, as you can see, But dead ash beneath the day.    Soon all things etc.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Già fur gli occhi nostri interi con la luce in ogni speco; or son voti, orrendi e neri, e ciò porta il tempo seco. ………… (G 22; T 110) Che fie di me? che vo’ tu far di nuovo d’un arso legno e d’un afflitto core? Dimmelo un poco, Amore, acciò che io sappi in che stato io mi truovo. Gli anni del corso mio al segno sono, come saetta c’al berzaglio è giunta, onde si de’ quetar l’ardente foco. E’ mie passati danni a te perdono, cagion che ’l cor l’arme tu’ spezza e spunta, c’amor per pruova in me non ha più loco; e s’e’ tuo colpi fussin nuovo gioco agli occhi mei, al cor timido e molle, vorria quel che già volle? Ond’or ti vince e sprezza, e tu tel sai, sol per aver men forza oggi che mai. Tu speri forse per nuova beltate tornarmi ’ndietro al periglioso impaccio, ove ’l più saggio assai men si difende: più corto è ’l mal nella più lunga etate ond’io sarò come nel foco el ghiaccio, che si distrugge e parte e non s’accende. La morte in questa età sol ne difende dal fiero braccio e da’ pungenti strali, cagion di tanti mali, che non perdona a condizion nessuna, né a loco, né tempo, né fortuna. L’anima mia, che con la morte parla, e seco di se stessa si consiglia, e di nuovi sospetti ognor s’attrista, el corpo di dì in dì spera lasciarla: onde l’immaginato cammin piglia, di speranza e timor confusa e mista. Ahi, Amor, come se’ pronto in vista,



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Once our eyes were lively-rolling With sweet daylight in each socket; Now they’re empty, black, appalling, And that daylight – time did pluck it. ………… (G 22; T 110)22 What will happen to me? You can now throw Away this weary heart, this piece of wood. Love, since you know, you should Now tell me where we stand – you and my woe. The years of all my life have reached the end, Just as an arrow reaches its own aim; It should be over, then – this restless fire. I forgive you, though much you did offend me, For now your weapons cannot harm or maim My heart, in which is dead all my desire. Oh, if your blows were sharper, or much higher, On my defeated heart and on my eyes, I could not suffer twice. You know my heart now conquers you, because It is no longer strong as it once was. Perhaps you hope, through some new beauty’s bait, To force me to that dangerous distress Again, from which the wisest try, in vain, To come out, safe. Long life means now less great Anguish, for I shall be, as I can guess, As ice in fire – it melts and feels no pain. At such an age, death is the first and main Protector of my heart Against your fiery arm and deadly dart, – Death who forgives with his severest face No wealth, no privilege, no time, no place. My soul, which now converses with my death, And humbly pleads its case and takes advice, Is, ah, dismayed by terror and new doubt. My body will soon stop its fainting breath, And so my soul is all prepared to rise; But hope and fright are moving in and out. Alas, O Love, when still you go about,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo temerario, audace, armato e forte! che e’ pensier della morte nel tempo suo di me discacci fori, per trar d’un arbor secco fronde e fiori. Che poss’io più? che debb’io? Nel tuo regno non ha’ tu tutto el tempo mio passato, che de’ mia anni un’ora non m’è tocca? Qual inganno, qual forza o qual ingegno tornar mi puote a te, signore ingrato, c’al cuor la morte e pietà porti in bocca? Ben sare’ ingrata e sciocca l’alma risuscitata, e senza stima, tornare a quel che gli diè morte prima. Ogni nato la terra in breve aspetta; d’ora in or manca ogni mortal bellezza: chi ama, il vedo, e’ non si può po’ sciorre. Col gran peccato la crudel vendetta insieme vanno; e quel che men s’apprezza, colui è sol c’a più suo mal più corre. A che mi vuo’ tu porre, che ’l dì ultimo buon, che mi bisogna, sie quel del danno e quel della vergogna? (G 23; T 111) I’ fu’, già son molt’anni, mille volte ferito e morto, non che vinto e stanco da te, mie colpa; e or col capo bianco riprenderò le tuo promesse stolte? Quante volte ha’ legate e quante sciolte le triste membra, e sì spronato il fianco, c’appena posso ritornar meco, anco bagnando il petto con lacrime molte! Di te mi dolgo, Amor, con teco parlo, sciolto da’ tuo lusinghi: a che bisogna prender l’arco crudel, tirare a voto? Al legno incenerato sega o tarlo, o dietro a un correndo, è gran vergogna c’ha perso e ferma ogni destrezza e moto.



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How boldly armed you are, how strong and gay! You chase my death away With all its thoughts, oh now so good to me, To draw forth leaves and buds from a dead tree. What can I do? What shall I do? On your lap, Or in your kingdom, you have all my past, For not an hour of it was ever mine. What stratagem, what power, or what trap, Can win me still, O lord cruel and fast, Whose heart is death, whose mouth a joy divine? Unworthy of one sign Of pity, base, my risen soul would be, Should it return to death and misery. The earth must shortly take every man born, And with each instant mortal beauty goes. Who loves, I know, can be himself no more. Great sin walks arm in arm with pain and scorn; And him who fastest runs toward his own woes, People and death and nature most deplore. At the end of my war, You cannot steal the day which I need most, In order not to be forever lost. (G 23; T 111)23 I, long ago, a thousand times was slain, Not simply wearied, wounded in a fight, By you, my guilt; now that my hair is white, Shall I obey your foolish lure again? So many times I had my limbs in chain, And you have crushed me under such a fright That, as you see, O Love, I am not quite Myself as yet, and live in tears and pain. I speak to you, O Love, and you I blame, Freed from your lures. I don’t see why you should Now shoot your cruel arrows with no aim. If saw still dares attack some dry, burnt wood, Or moth some useless cloth, it is great shame, Since neither is alive or any good.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 24; T 112) I’ fe’ degli occhi porta al mie veneno, quand’ el passo dier libero a’ fier dardi; nido e ricetto fe’ de’ dolci sguardi della memoria che ma’ verrà meno. Ancudine fe’ ’l cor, mantaco ’l seno da fabricar sospir, con che tu m’ardi. ………… (G 25; T 113) Quand’il servo il signor d’aspra catena senz’altra speme in carcer tien legato, volge in tal uso el suo misero stato, che libertà domanderebbe appena. E el tigre e ’l serpe ancor l’uso raffrena, e ’l fier leon ne’ folti boschi nato; e ’l nuovo artista, all’opre affaticato, coll’uso del sudor doppia suo lena. Ma ’l foco a tal figura non s’unisce; ché se l’umor d’un verde legno estinge, il freddo vecchio scalda e po’ ’l nutrisce, e tanto il torna in verde etate e spinge, rinnuova e ’nfiamma, allegra e ’ngiovanisce, c’amor col fiato l’alma e ’l cor gli cinge. E se motteggia o finge, chi dice in vecchia etate esser vergogna amar cosa divina, è gran menzogna. L’anima che non sogna, non pecca amar le cose di natura, usando peso, termine e misura. (G 26; T 23) Quand’avvien c’alcun legno non difenda il propio umor fuor del terreste loco, non può far c’al gran caldo assai o poco non si secchi o non s’arda o non s’accenda. Così ’l cor, tolto da chi mai mel renda, vissuto in pianto e nutrito di foco, or ch’è fuor del suo propio albergo e loco, qual mal fie che per morte non l’offenda?



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(G 24; T 112)24 Door to my poison I made of my eyes The day love’s ruthless arrows pierced my breast; And of my memory I made a nest For her sweet glances – and it never dies. To form and shape my incandescent sighs, My heart is anvil, and bellows my chest. ………… (G 25; T 113)25 A hapless slave, long kept in chains or ropes By his inclement master hopelessly, Is so much used to it, he neither hopes Nor wants to lose his wretched misery. No strength nor slyness, – only habit copes With tiger, lion, snake, victoriously; And use perfects an artist’s hand and scope Through the same work and sweat and constancy. This, of love’s fire, is not true at all: While it burns up and dries a tree’s green rind It warms and nourishes an old man’s soul, And so restores it that it makes it find Its April once again: at love’s sweet call, The world is young, and young my heart and mind. They are completely blind, Who say that, at my age, loving a thing Divine is but a shameful coveting. There is no sinful sting In loving beauty still, in loving nature, Provided one observe weight, goal, and measure. (G 26; T 23)26 If, uprooted, alas, a tree ever should Lose all its lymph out of its native ground, In the red summer heat flaming around It would dry up or simply be charred wood. Reared in all tears and fed with fire’s food, My heart – should it one tragic day be found Out of its home, where now to dwell is good – Would suffer from all things a mortal wound.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 27; T 24) Fuggite, amanti, Amor, fuggite ’l foco; l’incendio è aspro e la piaga è mortale, c’oltr’a l’impeto primo più non vale né forza né ragion né mutar loco. Fuggite, or che l’esemplo non è poco d’un fiero braccio e d’un acuto strale; leggete in me, qual sarà ’l vostro male, qual sarà l’impio e dispietato gioco. Fuggite, e non tardate, al primo sguardo: ch’i’ pensa’ d’ogni tempo avere accordo; or sento, e voi vedete, com’io ardo. ………… (G 28; T 26) Perché pur d’ora in ora mi lusinga la memoria degli occhi e la speranza, per cui non sol son vivo, ma beato; la forza e la ragion par che ne stringa, Amor, natura e la mie ’ntica usanza, mirarvi tutto il tempo che m’è dato. E s’i’ cangiassi stato, vivendo in questo, in quell’altro morrei; né pietà troverei ove non fussin quegli. O Dio, e’ son pur begli! Chi non ne vive non è nato ancora; e se verrà dipoi, a dirlo qui tra noi, forz’è che, nato, di subito mora; ché chi non s’innamora de’ begli occhi, non vive. ………… (G 29; T 27) Ogn’ira, ogni miseria e ogni forza, chi d’amor s’arma vince ogni fortuna. (G 30; T 29) Dagli occhi del mie ben si parte e vola un raggio ardente e di sì chiara luce



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(G 27; T 24) Quick, run away from love, away from fire: Harsh is the flame, and fatal the wound of the heart. No use to reason or fight, once you start, No use to find a place lower or higher. Run, lovers, listen to me. I’m not a liar: Strong is his arm, deadly and sharp his dart. Oh learn from me your fatal imminent smart; I warn you: he’s the most merciless sire. Quick, run away! At the first glance I thought I would in time even come to terms with him: But now my burn should tell you I did not. ………… (G 28; T 26) Remembrance of your eyes, O love, and hope To find them kind at last (l am alive Through them, and even blest), Have found companions now in all the rest: Reason, and will, and nature, all habits of me – They all agree that to see you is best. This is my life, indeed; should I change state, I certainly would die, Nor would I ever find pity at all Far from your eyes (O God, how beautiful!). Who has not seen these eyes is not born yet, And if he ever should come to this earth He would soon die: for not to fall In love with these sweet eyes Is not to live at all. …………

(G 29; T 27) Put on the armor of love and you’ll conquer Sorrow and anger, destiny and armies. (G 30; T 29) From the eyes of my love a lovely ray Darts, so aflame and bright,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo che da’ mie, chiusi ancor, trapassa ’l core. Onde va zoppo Amore, tant’è dispar la soma che conduce, dando a me luce, e tenebre m’invola. (G 32; T 25) Vivo al peccato, a me morendo vivo; vita già mia non son, ma del peccato: mie ben dal ciel, mie mal da me m’è dato, dal mie sciolto voler, di ch’io son privo. Serva mie libertà, mortal mie divo a me s’è fatto. O infelice stato! a che miseria, a che viver son nato! (G 34; T 92) La vita del mie amor non è ’l cor mio, c’amor di quel ch’i’ t’amo è senza core; dov’è cosa mortal, piena d’errore, esser non può già ma’, nè pensier rio. Amor nel dipartir l’alma da Dio me fe’ san occhio e te luc’ e splendore; nè può non rivederlo in quel che more di te, per nostro mal, mie gran desio. Come dal foco el caldo, esser diviso non può dal bell’etterno ogni mie stima, ch’exalta, ond’ella vien, chi più ’l somiglia. Poi che negli occhi ha’ tutto ’l paradiso, per ritornar là dov’i’ t’ama’ prima, ricorro ardendo sott’alle tuo ciglia. (G 35; T 93) El ciglio col color non fere el volto col suo contrar, che l’occhio non ha pena da l’uno all’altro stremo ov’egli è volto. L’occhio, che sotto intorno adagio mena, picciola parte di gran palla scuopre, che men rilieva suo vista serena, e manco sale e scende quand’ el copre; onde più corte son le suo palpebre, che manco grinze fan quando l’aopre.



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That, although mine be closed, it wounds my heart. Ah, Love is lame in part, And uneven his burden: he gives me light, But from me only darkness takes away. (G 32; T 25)27 Alive to sin, to me I die alone; Being of sin, my life I cannot claim. All good from heaven, comes from me all blame; Swept by my will, no will at all I own. Freedom a slave, mortality has grown Into a god in me. O woe! O shame! Into what wretched life, through birth, I came! (G 34; T 92)28 No, the life of my love is not my heart: The love, with which I love you, cannot be In this my heart whence all iniquity Of thought and baseness of desire start. Love, when my spirit did from God depart, Made me pure glance, and you, light’s destiny: That is the reason, God I seek and see In what of you, alas, time wears apart. As heat from fire one cannot divide, So from immortal beauty I, my thirst, – Quenched but a little by its closest flashes. Since all God’s heavens in your eyes abide, Once more to find you where I loved you first, I pause beneath the shelter of your lashes. (G 35; T 93)29 When contracting, the lash seems not to cause Suffering with its shadow: with no pain To both extremities the eye still goes. Beneath, the eye, revolving with no strain, Shows but a little part of its own ball, And the span of its clearness is in vain, For, covered by the lash, it does not fall Or climb, making the lid, which, used, gives room To less wrinkles, appear both short and small.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo El bianco bianco, el ner più che funebre, s’esser può, el giallo po’ più leonino, che scala fa dall’una all’altra vebre. Pur tocchi sotto e sopra el suo confino, e ’l giallo e ’l nero e ’l bianco non circundi. ………… (G 36; T 35) Oltre qui fu, dove ’l mie amor mi tolse, suo mercè, il core e vie più là la vita; qui co’ begli occhi mi promisse aita, e co’ medesmi qui tor me la volse. Quinci oltre mi legò, quivi mi sciolse; per me qui piansi, e con doglia infinita da questo sasso vidi far partita colui c’a me mi tolse e non mi volse. (G 37; T 59) In me la morte, in te la vita mia; tu distingui e concedi e parti el tempo; quante vuo’, breve e lungo è ’l viver mio. Felice son nella tuo cortesia. Beata l’alma, ove non corre tempo, per te s’è fatta a contemplare Dio. (G 38; T 60) Quanta dolcezza al cor per gli occhi porta quel che ’n un punto el tempo e morte fura! Che è questo però che mi conforta e negli affanni cresce e sempre dura. Amor, come virtù viva e accorta, desta gli spirti ed è più degna cura. Risponde a me: – Come persona morta mena suo vita chi è da me sicura. – Amore è un concetto di bellezza immaginata o vista dentro al core, amica di virtute e gentilezza. …………



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The white, true white; the black is black as tomb (If that can be); the yellow, leonine, Which makes one fibril to the other come. Though touched above and under its own confine, The eye allows no yellow, black, or white ………… (G 36; T 35)30 Not far from here my love once stole from me My heart and, ah, my life, – a bigger prey. Here with his eyes he seemed to heed my plea, And here his eyes turned cruel right away. Not far from here he bound me, set me free. Right here I wept and here, to my dismay, The one who took me, left me, I did see Soon from this stone go, merciless, his way. (G 37; T 59)31 In me is death, in you my life is all. You grant me time and set the pace of it, Your wish alone can speed or stop my blood. Happy am I at each your courteous call, Bidding my spirit rise where time can flit No more, where I can gaze upon my God. (G 38; T 60)32 So much delight into the heart descends From him who steals both time and death away! Love comforts me with respite every day, Yet my affliction grows and never ends. Love, like a breath that vivifies the clay, Rouses my spirits, stirs my sentiments, And answers me: “Who does not love, he spends All of his life as though interred he lay.” Love is a concept of beauty, I guess, Held by the mind or felt within the heart, A friend of virtue and of gentleness. …………

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 39; T 61) Del fiero colpo e del pungente strale la medicina era passarmi ’l core; ma questo è propio sol del mie signore, crescer la vita dove cresce ’l male. E se ’l primo suo colpo fu mortale, seco un messo di par venne d’Amore che mi disse: – Ama, anz’ardi; ché chi muore non ha da gire al ciel nel mondo altr’ale. I’ son colui che ne’ prim’anni tuoi gli occhi tuo infermi volsi alla beltate che dalla terra al ciel vivo conduce. – ………… (G 40; T 130) Quand’Amor lieto al ciel levarmi è volto cogli occhi di costei, anzi col sole, con breve riso ciò che preme e dole del cor mi caccia, e mettevi ’l suo volto; e s’i’ durassi in tale stato molto, l’alma, che sol di me lagnar si vole, avendo seco là dove star suole, ………… (G 41; T 31) Spirto ben nato, in cu’ si specchia e vede nelle tuo belle membra oneste e care quante natura e ’l ciel tra no’ può fare, quand’a null’altra suo bell’opra cede: spirto leggiadro, in cui si spera e crede dentro, come di fuor nel viso appare, amor, pietà, mercé, cose sì rare, che ma’ furn’in beltà con tanta fede: l’amor mi prende e la beltà mi lega; la pietà, la mercé con dolci sguardi ferma speranz’ al cor par che ne doni. Qual uso o qual governo al mondo niega, qual crudeltà per tempo o qual più tardi, c’a sì bell’opra morte non perdoni?



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(G 39; T 61)33 The medicine to Love’s horrendous blow Would have been this – to pierce with death my heart. But ah, it seems to be my Sovereign’s art To double life while implementing woe. With that first mortal arrow that I know, He sent a messenger, just to impart This lesson to me: “Burn! If you depart From earth in love, with wings to God you go. I am the one who in your primal years Turned your weak glances to that living Beauty Which lifts you to the sky from earth, alive.” ………… (G 40; T 130)34 When, happy, Love decides to make me rise To heaven with her eyes – no, with the sun, With a brief smile he makes my sadness run Far from my heart, in which he leaves those eyes. If I stay long in such a paradise, My soul, which I cannot but hurt and stun For such exchange, deplores what I have done, ………… (G 41; T 31)35 O gentle soul in which we all can see, Mirrored in your sweet limbs so fair and dear, What heaven and nature can achieve down here, And how each other work inferior be. O gracious soul in which all men, as we, Believe all things that on your face appear, – Beauty, and love, and tenderness, so rare As never to be found in such degree. Love conquers me, and beauty binds me all; Tenderness makes me hope through one sweet glance, And in this hope alone I can exist. What is it in the world, – what dark appall, What cruelty, what law, what circumstance, That death should not forgive this face at least?

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 42; T 32) Dimmi di grazia, Amor, se gli occhi mei veggono ’l ver della beltà c’aspiro, o s’io l’ho dentro allor che, dov’io miro, veggio scolpito el viso di costei. Tu ’l de’ saper, po’ che tu vien con lei a torm’ogni mie pace, ond’io m’adiro; né vorre’ manco un minimo sospiro, né men ardente foco chiederei. – La beltà che tu vedi è ben da quella, ma cresce poi c’a miglior loco sale, se per gli occhi mortali all’alma corre. Quivi si fa divina, onesta e bella, com’a sé simil vuol cosa immortale: questa e non quella agli occhi tuo precorre. – (G 43; T 33) La ragion meco si lamenta e dole, parte ch’i’ spero amando esser felice; con forti esempli e con vere parole la mie vergogna mi rammenta e dice: – Che ne riportera’ dal vivo sole altro che morte? e non come fenice. – Ma poco giova, ché chi cader vuole, non basta l’altru’ man pront’ e vittrice. I’ conosco e’ mie danni, e ’l vero intendo; dall’altra banda albergo un altro core, che più m’uccide dove più m’arrendo. In mezzo di duo mort’ è ’l mie signore: questa non voglio e questa non comprendo: così sospeso, el corpo e l’alma muore. (G 44; T 34) Mentre c’alla beltà ch’i’ vidi in prima appresso l’alma, che per gli occhi vede, l’immagin dentro cresce, e quella cede quasi vilmente e senza alcuna stima. Amor, c’adopra ogni suo ingegno e lima, perch’io non tronchi ’l fil ritorna e riede. …………



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(G 42; T 32)36 Tell me, I beg you. Love, if my eyes gaze Upon the truth of beauty I long for, Or if I have it in me, since, the more I look, the more engraved I see her face. You must know, for you come with her to raze My every peace, which makes my spirit war; Yet I would hate to sigh less than before, Nor would I ask for a less burning blaze. The beauty which you see from her does spring, But, since it only soars to heaven, it grows When through your mortal eyes it takes your soul. There it becomes divine, – a beauteous thing Which, being deathless, makes immortal those It touches. This, not earth, is then your goal. (G 43; T 33)37 Happy in loving I still hope to be, But forward comes my reason to complain. With strong examples and with words not vain A sense of shame, therefore, reproaches me: From such a living sun can you obtain Other than death? The phoenix – you can see – Will nothing do for you. If you are slain, No ready rescuing hand can make you free. I recognize my harm, the truth I know; Yet dwells in me a heart at whose command, To die once more, I yield to its new woe. Between two deaths my sovereign lord does lie: This I hate, that I do not understand; While in suspense, both soul and body die. (G 44; T 34)38 Since only through the eyes my soul discerns, While I attempt to draw it back to that smile Of beauty I first saw, my senses burn, And the surrender of my soul is vile. Thus Love, employing every tool and file To strengthen my life’s thread, returns, returns. …………

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 45; T 99) Ben doverrieno al sospirar mie tanto esser secco oramai le fonti e ’ fiumi, s’i’ non gli rinfrescassi col mie pianto. Così talvolta i nostri etterni lumi, l’un caldo e l’altro freddo ne ristora, acciò che ’l mondo più non si consumi. E similmente il cor che s’innamora, quand’el superchio ardor troppo l’accende, l’umor degli occhi il tempra, che non mora. La morte e ’l duol, ch’i’ bramo e cerco, rende un contento avenir, che non mi lassa morir; ché chi diletta non offende. Onde la navicella mie non passa, com’io vorrei, a vederti a quella riva che ’l corpo per a tempo di qua lassa. Troppo dolor vuol pur ch’i’ campi e viva, qual più c’altri veloce andando vede, che dopo gli altri al fin del giorno arriva. Crudel pietate e spietata mercede me lasciò vivo, e te da me disciolse, rompendo, e non mancando nostra fede, e la memoria a me non sol non tolse, ………… (G 46; T 101) Se ’l mie rozzo martello i duri sassi forma d’uman aspetto or questo or quello, dal ministro che ’l guida, iscorge e tiello, prendendo il moto, va con gli altrui passi. Ma quel divin che in cielo alberga e stassi, altri, e sé più, col propio andar fa bello; e se nessun martel senza martello si può far, da quel vivo ogni altro fassi.



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(G 45; T 99)39 For all this anguish and for all this sighing, Fountains and rivers would by now be dry, Had they not been replenished by my crying. As our two deathless splendors of the sky Give, one, heat, and the other, cold, from above, So that the earth may not wear out and die; Thus, when the human heart is deep in love, And too much flame has held it for too long, The solace of these tears makes it still move. Sorrow, and death, for which alone I long, Promise a happy future, and renew My present: what delights can never wrong! And so, my little bark cannot come through, As I would like, to see you on that shore Which does not take our flesh’s residue. Oh, too much pain, to make me live still more, Makes me see others going glad and swift. And dooms me to be last to close life’s door. A cruel destiny – a bitter gift – Left me alive, took you away from me: But oh, our happy faith has known no rift. In me not only lives your memory, ………… (G 46; T 101)40 If my rough hammer gives a human face To this or that of all hard blocks that wait, It is another smith makes me create, Controlling each my motion, each my pace. But that high hammer beyond stars and space Makes self, and others, with each stroke, more great And bright; and since the first must generate All hammers, that gives life to all, always.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo E perché ’l colpo è di valor più pieno quant’alza più se stesso alla fucina, sopra ’l mie questo al ciel n’è gito a volo. Onde a me non finito verrà meno, s’or non gli dà la fabbrica divina aiuto a farlo, c’al mondo era solo. Lionardo

Era solo a exaltar al mondo con gran virtu le virtu; non avea chi menassi e mantaci. Ora nel cielo ara molti compagni, perche non v’ è se non a chi è piaciuto le virtu; ond’ io spero, che di lassu finira quaggi el mio m(artello). Ara ora in cielo chi almeno mena i mantaci, che quaggiu non aveva nessun compagnio alla fucina, do’ si exaltano le virtu.

(G 47; T 100) Quand’el ministro de’ sospir mie tanti al mondo, agli occhi mei, a sé si tolse, natura, che fra noi degnar lo volse, restò in vergogna, e chi lo vide in pianti. Ma non come degli altri oggi si vanti del sol del sol, c’allor ci spense e tolse, morte, c’amor ne vinse, e farlo il tolse in terra vivo e ’n ciel fra gli altri santi. Così credette morte iniqua e rea finir il suon delle virtute sparte, e l’alma, che men bella esser potea. Contrari effetti alluminan le carte di vita più che ’n vita non solea, e morto ha ’l ciel, c’allor non avea parte. (G 48; T 105) Come fiamma più cresce più contesa dal vento, ogni virtù che ’l cielo esalta tanto più splende quant’è più offesa. (G 49; T 62) Amor, la tuo beltà non è mortale: nessun volto fra noi è che pareggi l’immagine del cor, che ’nfiammi e reggi con altro foco e muovi con altr’ale.



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And since the most effective is that blow Which falls from highest in the smithy, mine Shall fall no more – my hammer having flown. Now here am I, unskilled, and do not know How to go on, unless the smith divine Teaches me how, who am on earth alone. Lionardo She (the hammer) was alone, on earth, to exalt virtue with her own; she had no one to draw the bellows for her. Now in heaven she must have many companions, since only those who loved virtue dwell there; I hope, therefore, that, from above, she will perfect my own (hammer). She must now have in heaven one who at least may draw the bellows, for, while on earth, she had no help in the smithy where all virtues are exalted. (G 47; T 100)41 When she, the cause of all my sighs and fears, Passed away from the world and from my eyes, All nature wanted to apologize, And those who met her once, were all in tears. But quick, let boasting Death refrain from sneers: She could not kill the sun of all sunrise. Not Death, but Love has won, for, as a prize, Her earthly life still lives in the high spheres. You thought it would be easy, cruel Death, To end her virtue, lead her worth astray, And give her soul a place less high and bright. O opposite effect – her living breath Speaks in her poems more than yesterday, And God at last can now enjoy her sight. (G 48; T 105)42 As higher grows a flame, the more contended It is by winds, so every virtue shines More bright the more it is by sin offended. (G 49; T 62) Your beauty, Love, is not a mortal thing; No face, among these all, can ever compare With the one in my heart, which you now stir With a new flame and move by a new wing.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 50; T 131) Che fie doppo molt’anni di costei, Amor, se ’l tempo ogni beltà distrugge? Fama di lei; e anche questa fugge e vola e manca più ch’i’ non vorrei. Più e men … … … … ………… (G 51; T 49) Oilmè, oilmè, ch’i’ son tradito da’ giorni mie fugaci e dallo specchio che ’l ver dice a ciascun che fiso ’l guarda! Così n’avvien, chi troppo al fin ritarda, com’ho fatt’io, che ’l tempo m’è fuggito: si trova come me ’n un giorno vecchio. Né mi posso pentir, né m’apparecchio, né mi consiglio con la morte appresso. Nemico di me stesso, inutilmente i pianti e ’ sospir verso, ché non è danno pari al tempo perso. Oilmè, oilmè, pur riterando vo ’l mio passato tempo e non ritruovo in tutto un giorno che sie stato mio! Le fallace speranze e ’l van desio, piangendo, amando, ardendo e sospirando (c’affetto alcun mortal non m’è più nuovo) m’hanno tenuto, ond’il conosco e pruovo, lontan certo dal vero. Or con periglio pèro; ché ’l breve tempo m’è venuto manco, né sarie ancor, se s’allungassi, stanco. I’ vo lasso, oilmè, né so ben dove; anzi temo, ch’il veggio, e ’l tempo andato mel mostra, né mi val che gli occhi chiuda. Or che ’l tempo la scorza cangia e muda, la morte e l’alma insieme ognor fan pruove, la prima e la seconda, del mie stato. E s’io non sono errato, (che Dio ’l voglia ch’io sia), l’etterna pena mia



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(G 50; T 131) Of her beauty, O Love, what will remain, If time annuls whatever is so fair? Her fame! But even this goes with the air, And flies and fails, and no one can detain. More or less … … … … ………… (G 51; T 49)43 Alas, alas, for I am now betrayed By all my fleeting days, and by the mirror, Which those who gaze upon it, does reproach. So to whoever dares postpone too much The same thing happens as to me: time’s fled, And in one day I’m old – there is no error. Ah, I cannot repent now, with death’s terror So near, nor can I ask, or ready be. My own self’s enemy, In vain I weep (my tears are useless most) For there’s no harm so fatal as time lost. Alas, alas, for I long to retrace All of my days that sped, and cannot find Among them even one I can call mine. False hopes and empty wishes (scar and sign Of all man’s deadly passions on my face!) With tears and sighs of love have made me blind, And now I dread the knowledge of the mind: Doubtless from truth away, I perish in dismay. My time is over; if it were not yet, I wonder I would feel any regret. Alas, I go, but where, I cannot say: I am afraid I know, for my days spent Can show it: oh, how vain to close my eyes! Now that time comes to me in new disguise, Death is my foe and seeks a double prey, And my soul struggles with a low lament. If I’m not wrong (God grant I am!), I clearly see Eternal death beyond this agony,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo nel mal libero inteso oprato vero veggio, Signor, né so quel ch’io mi spero. (G 52; T 38) S’alcun se stesso al mondo ancider lice, po’ che per morte al ciel tornar si crede, sarie ben giusto a chi con tanta fede vive servendo miser e ’nfelice. Ma perché l’uom non è come fenice, c’alla luce del sol resurge e riede, la man fo pigra e muovo tardi el piede. ………… (G 53; T 39) Chi di notte cavalca, el dì conviene c’alcuna volta si riposi e dorma: così sper’io, che dopo tante pene ristori ’l mie signor mie vita e forma. Non dura ’l mal dove non dura ’l bene, ma spesso l’un nell’altro si trasforma. ………… ………… (G 54; T 36) Io crederrei, se tu fussi di sasso, amarti con tal fede, ch’i’ potrei farti meco venir più che di passo; se fussi morto, parlar ti farei, se fussi in ciel, ti tirerei a basso co’ pianti, co’ sospir, co’ prieghi miei. Sendo vivo e di carne, e qui tra noi, chi t’ama e serve che de’ creder poi? I’ non posso altro far che seguitarti, e della grande impresa non mi pento. Tu non se’ fatta com’un uom da sarti, che si muove di fuor, si muove drento; e se dalla ragion tu non ti parti, spero c’un dì tu mi fara’ contento: ché ’l morso il ben servir togli’ a’ serpenti, come l’agresto quand’allega i denti.



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For truth I knew and yet away I tossed: And even hope, O Lord, I now have lost. (G 52; T 38)44 If it were right to kill oneself, and be, Through death, back home in paradise at last, This would much please all those who, with a vast Faith, live and serve in misery, like me. But man is not a phoenix that will, free And happy, rise again from its dead past: And so I stop my hand, and wait for the dust. ………… (G 53; T 39) The horseman always riding in the night Eventually must sleep and rest in the day: And so I hope that, after such dismay, My lord will give my life repose and quiet. Where good is brief, no evil is to stay, But this will become that when comes the light ………… ………… (G 54; T 36)45 Yes, I believe that if you were but stone, My love – being so great – would know some trick To make you live at last, and even run; If you were dead, I then would make you speak; Were you in heaven, down you would be drawn By my prayers, by the tears on my pale cheek. But you are here, alive, on my same earth: Then, loving you, I should suffer no dearth. So, follow you I only can, and must, And have no fear to travel anywhere. Well, you are not at all a wooden bust Such as in tailors’ shops goes here and there; And if your reason is not full of dust, I know you will in time give me my share: Sweetness can stop even a serpent’s tooth, Just as sour grapes bind the teeth in my mouth.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo E’ non è forza contr’a l’umiltate, né crudeltà può star contr’a l’amore; ogni durezza suol vincer pietate, sì come l’allegrezza fa ’l dolore; una nuova nel mondo alta beltate come la tuo non ha ’ltrimenti il core; c’una vagina, ch’è dritta a vedella, non può dentro tener torte coltella. E non può esser pur che qualche poco la mie gran servitù non ti sie cara; pensa che non si truova in ogni loco la fede negli amici, che è sì rara; ………… ………… ………… ………… Quando un dì sto che veder non ti posso, non posso trovar pace in luogo ignuno; se po’ ti veggo, mi s’appicca addosso, come suole il mangiar far al digiuno; ………… ………… com’altri il ventre di votar si muore, ch’è più ’l conforto, po’ che pri’ è ’l dolore. E non mi passa tra le mani un giorno ch’i’ non la vegga o senta con la mente; né scaldar ma’ si può fornace o forno c’a’ mie sospir non fussi più rovente; e quando avvien ch’i’ l’abbi un po’ dintorno, sfavillo come ferro in foco ardente; e tanto vorre’ dir, s’ella m’aspetta, ch’i’ dico men che quand’i’ non ho fretta. S’avvien che la mi rida pure un poco o mi saluti in mezzo della via, mi levo come polvere dal foco o di bombarda o d’altra artiglieria; se mi domanda, subito m’affioco, perdo la voce e la risposta mia,



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If you give up, no strength I shall employ, Since cruelty and love must always fight. Only compassion can indeed destroy Harshness, and sudden gladness win my fright. The world is never able to enjoy A greater beauty than your very sight. Now, tell me, can a sheath so nice and straight Conceal a crookéd knife? I would say not. And I must say that, well, at least a little, For my devoted constancy you care. I warn you: every friendship is but brittle; My faithfulness, therefore, is very rare. ………… ………… ………… ………… If only but one day I do not meet you, There is no place where I can find delight; But if I see you, then I want to eat you, For one who starves, must sate his appetite. ………… ………… Like one who has to run, after a purge: He’s more relieved, if greater was the urge.

If I happen to meet her on the road, Or if, among all people, she greets me, I must admit I suddenly explode Like shooting powder of artillery. But if she speaks to me, I only nod, I lose my speech, and all my answers flee:

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo e subito s’arrende il gran desio, e la speranza cede al poter mio. I’ sento in me non so che grand’amore, che quasi arrivere’ ’nsino alle stelle; e quando alcuna volta il vo trar fore, non ho buco sì grande nella pelle che nol faccia, a uscirne, assa’ minore parere, e le mie cose assai men belle: c’amore o forza el dirne è grazia sola; e men ne dice chi più alto vola. I’ vo pensando al mie viver di prima, inanzi ch’i’ t’amassi, com’egli era: di me non fu ma’ chi facesse stima, perdendo ogni dì il tempo insino a sera; forse pensavo di cantare in rima o di ritrarmi da ogni altra schiera? Or si fa ’l nome, o per tristo o per buono, e sassi pure almen che i’ ci sono. Tu m’entrasti per gli occhi, ond’io mi spargo, come grappol d’agresto in un’ampolla, che doppo ’l collo cresce ov’è più largo; così l’immagin tua, che fuor m’immolla, dentro per gli occhi cresce, ond’io m’allargo come pelle ove gonfia la midolla; entrando in me per sì stretto vïaggio, che tu mai n’esca ardir creder non aggio. Come quand’entra in una palla il vento, che col medesmo fiato l’animella, come l’apre di fuor, la serra drento, così l’immagin del tuo volto bella per gli occhi dentro all’alma venir sento; e come gli apre, poi si serra in quella; e come palla pugno al primo balzo, percosso da’ tu’ occhi al ciel po’ m’alzo. Perché non basta a una donna bella goder le lode d’un amante solo, ché suo beltà potre’ morir con ella;



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In this sudden surrender of my sense, Hope rids me of my former violence. There is in me so great a love, no doubt, That to the stars I long to soar and spin; But when, sometime, I want to take it out, There is no hole so big, in all my skin, As not to make it seem a humble sprout, And even my works less beautiful, more thin. To tell the strength of love, one must have grace, And he speaks less, who the much higher flies. I try to recollect as I was once, Before I knew your love and its delight: Everyone thought I only was a dunce, Wasting my time from morning unto night. Perhaps I thought I too would stand a chance To be a poet and to reach some height. I’ve heard the mention of my name already, And now they know at least I am somebody. You won me through my eyes (O joy! O sorrow!). Just as a bunch of sour grapes which is put Into a bottle, down its neck less narrow, So does your image (are my cheeks still wet?) Go down and down, in me, down to the marrow, To the place where the skin is taut and fat. Ah, since you enter through so small a hole, I dare not think that you can leave at all. Just as the wind, entering a balloon, With the same force, once in, still blows and blows, And makes it swell outside; thus, very soon, The image of your face serenely goes Through the eyes down to the soul (O sweet boon!), And makes me open, but itself does close. As the first hand makes the balloon uprise, So to heaven I soar, touched by your eyes. A woman as sublime and fair as you, Cannot enjoy the praises of one lover, For, when she dies, her beauty may die, too.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo dunche, s’i’ t’amo, reverisco e colo, al merito ’l poter poco favella; c’un zoppo non pareggia un lento volo, né gira ’l sol per un sol suo mercede, ma per ogni occhio san c’al mondo vede. I’ non posso pensar come ’l cor m’ardi, passando a quel per gli occhi sempre molli, che ’l foco spegnerien non ch’e’ tuo sguardi. Tutti e’ ripari mie son corti e folli: se l’acqua il foco accende, ogni altro è tardi a camparmi dal mal ch’i’ bramo e volli, salvo il foco medesmo. O cosa strana, se ’l mal del foco spesso il foco sana! (G 55; T 56) I’ t’ho comprato, ancor che molto caro, un po’ di non so che, che sa di buono, perc’a l’odor la strada spesso imparo. Ovunche tu ti sia, dovunch’i’ sono, senz’alcun dubbio ne son certo e chiaro. Se da me ti nascondi, i’ tel perdono: portandol dove vai sempre con teco, ti troverei, quand’io fussi ben cieco. (G 56; T 41) Vivo della mie morte e, se ben guardo, felice vivo d’infelice sorte; e chi viver non sa d’angoscia e morte, nel foco venga, ov’io mi struggo e ardo. (G 57; T 42) S’i’ vivo più di chi più m’arde e cuoce, quante più legne o vento il foco accende, tanto più chi m’uccide mi difende, e più mi giova dove più mi nuoce. (G 58; T 43) Se l’immortal desio, c’alza e corregge gli altrui pensier, traessi e’ mie di fore, forse c’ancor nella casa d’Amore farie pietoso chi spietato regge.



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Therefore, if my one praise should soon be over, Others will give your merit what is due. A limping man can never fly. To cover The world, only the sun is able with its light: But this belongs to all – am I not right? How strange: my heart still burns and still endures, And yet these eyes of mine are now so wet That they could kill even the flame of yours. The remedies I tried had no effect: Water can nothing do, and does not cure. Alas, there is no medicine, except My fire itself. O wonder most distinguished: Danger of fire is by fire extinguished! (G 55; T 56)46 Since by its scent I often know a street, Look, I have bought you at too dear a price A little something that smells very sweet. Now I shall always know, by this device, Wherever you may be, or we may meet. I will forgive you if you hide your eyes From me; but carry this, and I should find You easily, though I were utterly blind. (G 56; T 41)47 I feed on my own death, and yet I feel Quite happy in my own unhappiness. Let those who want to shun death or distress Learn from this fervor I cannot conceal. (G 57; T 42)48 Who makes me die, he also makes me live: The more a flame is fed by wood or breath, The more, while killing me, he spares me death, And the greater the joy that I receive. (G 58; T 43)49 If the immortal longing of the mind Could make my thoughts as high and pure and clear, The one who in Love’s house is king austere Would be perhaps more merciful and kind.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Ma perché l’alma per divina legge ha lunga vita, e ’l corpo in breve muore, non può ’l senso suo lode o suo valore appien descriver quel c’appien non legge. Dunche, oilmè! come sarà udita la casta voglia che ’l cor dentro incende da chi sempre se stesso in altrui vede? La mie cara giornata m’è impedita col mie signor c’alle menzogne attende, c’a dire il ver, bugiardo è chi nol crede. (G 59; T 44) S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna, s’una fortuna infra dua amanti equale, s’un’aspra sorte all’un dell’altro cale, s’un spirto, s’un voler duo cor governa; s’un’anima in duo corpi è fatta etterna, ambo levando al cielo e con pari ale; s’amor d’un colpo e d’un dorato strale le viscer di duo petti arda e discerna; s’amar l’un l’altro e nessun se medesmo, d’un gusto e d’un diletto, a tal mercede c’a un fin voglia l’uno e l’altro porre: se mille e mille, non sarien centesmo a tal nodo d’amore, e tanta fede; e sol l’isdegno il può rompere e sciorre. (G 60; T 45) Tu sa’ ch’i’ so, signor mie, che tu sai ch’i vengo per goderti più da presso, e sai ch’i’ so che tu sa’ ch’i’ son desso: a che più indugio a salutarci omai? Se vera è la speranza che mi dai, se vero è ’l gran desio che m’è concesso, rompasi il mur fra l’uno e l’altra messo, ché doppia forza hann’i celati guai. S’i’ amo sol di te, signor mie caro, quel che di te più ami, non ti sdegni, ché l’un dell’altro spirto s’innamora.



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But since, by divine law, the soul must find Elsewhere its lasting life, and our flesh here Must shortly die, our sense cannot revere Or fully praise the things to which it’s blind. Therefore, how can, alas, my chaste desire, That keeps my heart aglow, be understood By one who finds himself in all he sees? My happy day I cannot live at ease With my dear lord. Prone to the earth, how could He recognize a pure, celestial fire? (G 59; T 44)50 If a chaste love can suffer and console, If ever two lives become one loving heart, If the harsh fate of one makes the other smart, If two minds are one will toward one bright goal, If in two bodies beats one deathless soul Soaring with equal wings to heaven’s art, If love can kindle by one golden dart Two spirits, which one flame, one wound control; If one can love the other, and both share The same taste, the same joy, and are so fond Each of the other as to seek one bliss; If thousands of such things cannot compare With our love, with our faith, and with our bond: Why should disdain untie, or break, all this? (G 60; T 45)51 You know, my Lord, that I know that you know I’m coming back to you to please my eye, And you know that I know you know it’s I: Why don’t you welcome me as long ago? If I must trust this hope you give and show, And if, in truth, no more have I to sigh, Oh let us break the wall between us! Why, A hidden sorrow is a double woe. Love me not less, O my dear Lord, if I Can love of you what you yourself love best: Only the soul can make a spirit yearn.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Quel che nel tuo bel volto bramo e ’mparo, e mal compres’ è dagli umani ingegni, chi ’l vuol saper convien che prima mora. (G 61; T 46) S’i’ avessi creduto al primo sguardo di quest’alma fenice al caldo sole rinnovarmi per foco, come suole nell’ultima vecchiezza, ond’io tutt’ardo, qual più veloce cervio o lince o pardo segue ’l suo bene e fugge quel che dole, agli atti, al riso, all’oneste parole sarie cors’anzi, ond’or son presto e tardo. Ma perché più dolermi, po’ ch’i’ veggio negli occhi di quest’angel lieto e solo mie pace, mie riposo e mie salute? Forse che prima sarie stato il peggio vederlo, udirlo, s’or di pari a volo seco m’impenna a seguir suo virtute. (G 62; T 109-87) Sol pur col foco il fabbro il ferro stende al concetto suo caro e bel lavoro, né senza foco alcuno artista l’oro al sommo grado suo raffina e rende; né l’unica fenice sé riprende se non prim’arsa; ond’io, s’ardendo moro, spero più chiar resurger tra coloro che morte accresce e ’l tempo non offende. Del foco, di ch’i’ parlo, ho gran ventura c’ancor per rinnovarmi abbi in me loco, sendo già quasi nel numer de’ morti. O ver, s’al cielo ascende per natura, al suo elemento, e ch’io converso in foco sie, come fie che seco non mi porti? (G 63; T 109-88) Sì amico al freddo sasso è ’l foco interno che, di quel tratto, se lo circumscrive, che l’arda e spezzi, in qualche modo vive,



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Beauty that on your face I see and learn Cannot be understood, or even guessed: Who wants to know, to earth he first must die. (G 61; T 46)52 Had I believed, when I saw, bright and near, That noble phoenix destined to rise warm Out of its old cold age (O sweet new form!) – Had I believed I too could change my year Through fire, oh, as a lynx, a leopard, a deer, Which leap to joy and run away from harm, I would have leapt to the smile and the charm Of that first hour; but now I’m slow, I fear. But why should I complain? Have I not seen In the eyes of that angel, glad, unique, My salvation, my rest, my peace of mind? Oh worse, perhaps, much worse it would have been To see him, hear him, before now. No peak Of virtue, then: my wings soar now behind him. (G 62; T 109-87)53 Only with fire a smith can shape and tame His metal to the vision of his dream; Likewise, an artist purifies with flame His gold, and keeps it there to make it gleam. How can the phoenix rise to its bright aim, Unless it, first, dies burned? So, if I seem To die of love, I really soar to fame Which death makes great, and time can never dim. Oh, how I love and bless this happy fire That in my heart still glows, and will renew My life, already part of the dead throng. Is not its nature to rise and aspire To its high sphere? But, being fire, too, Shall I not rise behind and soar along? (G 63; T 109-88)54 So in love with the stone, in which it lies, Is fire, that, soon drawn forth, with its quick blaze It binds it, burns it, breaks it, and in new guise

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo legando con sé gli altri in loco etterno. E se ’n fornace dura, istate e verno vince, e ’n più pregio che prima s’ascrive, come purgata infra l’altre alte e dive alma nel ciel tornasse da l’inferno. Così tratto di me, se mi dissolve il foco, che m’è dentro occulto gioco, arso e po’ spento aver più vita posso. Dunche, s’i’ vivo, fatto fummo e polve, etterno ben sarò, s’induro al foco; da tale oro e non ferro son percosso. (G 64; T 132) Se ’l foco il sasso rompe e ’l ferro squaglia, figlio del lor medesmo e duro interno, che farà ’l più ardente dell’inferno d’un nimico covon secco di paglia? (G 65; T 47) In quel medesmo tempo ch’io v’adoro, la memoria del mie stato infelice nel pensier mi ritorna, e piange e dice: ben ama chi ben arde, ov’io dimoro. Però che scudo fo di tutti loro ... (G 66; T 48) Forse perché d’altrui pietà mi vegna, perché dell’altrui colpe più non rida, nel mie propio valor, senz’altra guida, caduta è l’alma che fu già sì degna. Né so qual militar sott’altra insegna non che da vincer, da campar più fida, sie che ’l tumulto dell’avverse strida non pèra, ove ’l poter tuo non sostegna. O carne, o sangue, o legno, o doglia strema, giusto per vo’ si facci el mie peccato, di ch’i’ pur nacqui, e tal fu ’l padre mio. Tu sol se’ buon; la tuo pietà suprema soccorra al mie preditto iniquo stato, sì presso a morte e sì lontan da Dio.



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It makes it live in some immortal place. And that same stone, when baked, can brave and face All seasons, and acquires a higher price, Just like a soul that soars to blesséd days After the flames that cleanse while they chastise. Thus, if it is my fate that I soon must Be dissolved by this fire that hides in me, My new life shall be vast and manifold. Therefore, if I am now but smoke and dust, Cleansed by this flame, eternal I shall be: No iron chisel carves me – one of gold. (G 64; T 132) Iron and stone are melted, split by fire – And fire is the son of their hard core – ; Should not hell, then, more fiercely, evermore, Crush this dry bundle of straw with its ire? (G 65; T 47)55 The very moment that I love you more, The memory of my unhappiness Comes to my mind, and it both weeps and says: “Love only grows together with your sore.” But with my shield how can I long endure? (G 66; T 48)56 Perhaps to make me understand, and cry Over the sin of others, and not boast Of my worth any more, all guidance lost, Fallen is my soul, too, oh once so high. No safer flag I know, under which I Should fight now, not to try the uttermost, But only to be spared by my foe, most Tumultuous now. Oh help me not to die! O Flesh! O Blood! O Cross! Last agony! Redeem, O all of you, my sin, which came Into my body through my father’s blood. Christ, you alone are good. Oh turn to me! With all your boundless pity cleanse my shame! So close to death and still so far from God!

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 67; T 163) Nuovo piacere e di maggiore stima veder l’ardite capre sopr’un sasso montar, pascendo or questa or quella cima, e ’l mastro lor, con aspre note, al basso, sfogare el cor colla suo rozza rima, sonando or fermo, e or con lento passo, e la suo vaga, che ha ’l cor di ferro, star co’ porci, in contegno, sott’un cerro; quant’è veder ’n un eminente loco e di pagli’ e di terra el loro ospizio: chi ingombra ’l desco e chi fa fora ’l foco, sott’a quel faggio ch’è più lor propizio; chi ingrassa e gratta ’l porco, e prende gioco, chi doma ’l ciuco col basto primizio; el vecchio gode e fa poche parole, fuor dell’uscio a sedere, e stassi al sole. Di fuor dentro si vede quel che hanno: pace sanza oro e sanza sete alcuna. El giorno c’a solcare i colli vanno, contar puo’ lor ricchezze ad una ad una. Non han serrami e non temon di danno; lascion la casa aperta alla fortuna; po’, doppo l’opra, lieti el sonno tentano; sazi di ghiande, in sul fien s’adormentano. L’invidia non ha loco in questo stato; la superbia se stessa si divora. Avide son di qualche verde prato, o di quell’erba che più bella infiora. Il lor sommo tesoro è uno arato, e ’l bomero è la gemma che gli onora; un paio di ceste è la credenza loro, e le pale e le zappe e’ vasi d’oro. O avarizia cieca, o bassi ingegni, che disusate ’l ben della natura! Cercando l’or, le terre e ’ ricchi regni, vostre imprese superbia ha forte e dura. L’accidia, la lussuria par v’insegni;



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(G 67; T 163)57 O pleasure new, O most unusual bliss, To see on some steep rock some carefree goats Grazing on that green tuft and now on this, While, down below, the goatherd with rude notes Utters his loving heart’s unhappiness, Playing a strident instrument of oat, And his sweetheart, stone-hearted, seems to be Minding her swine alone beneath a tree. How beautiful to see from such a height The straw-and-clay-built house of these good folk: One sets the table; one makes fire bright Not far from there, beneath a sheltering oak; One strokes and feeds a pig with great delight; One tames a donkey with the first-time yoke; Grandfather comes, says something to each one, And then relaxes in the happy sun. Read in their eyes their quiet, if you will: With no desire for gold they know full peace. The day, as they dig furrows on the hill, Their riches, one by one, one counts and sees. They have no keys, for they expect no ill; Their home is open to both fate and breeze. Fed with acorns, at dusk, serene and gay, They rest from work, and sleep on a mound of hay. Envy can find no room in such a state, And Pride devours himself. These folk are eager Only for a green meadow, which they rate By the new grass that grows with quickest vigor. To them, their treasure most sublime and great Is but a plow, its share a gem far bigger Than those you love. Two baskets are their pantry, And hoes and spades are jewels in the country. O blind and blinding greed! O men so low, Who still abuse sweet nature’s goods galore! In quest of wealthy lands and gold’s new glow, To cruel Pride you give all things you store. From Sloth and Lust you only learn and know,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo l’invidia ’l mal d’altrui provvede e cura: non vi scorgete, in insaziabil foco, che ’l tempo è breve e ’l necessario è poco. Color c’anticamente, al secol vecchio, si trasser fame e sete d’acqua e ghiande vi sieno esemplo, scorta, lume e specchio, e freno alle delizie, alle vivande. Porgete al mie parlare un po’ l’orecchio: colui che ’l mondo impera, e ch’è sì grande, ancor disidra, e non ha pace poi; e ’l villanel la gode co’ suo buoi. D’oro e di gemme, e spaventata in vista, adorna, la Ricchezza va pensando; ogni vento, ogni pioggia la contrista, e gli agùri e ’ prodigi va notando. La lieta Povertà, fuggendo, acquista ogni tesor, né pensa come o quando; secur ne’ boschi, in panni rozzi e bigi, fuor d’obrighi, di cure e di letigi. L’avere e ’l dar, l’usanze streme e strane, el meglio e ’l peggio, e le cime dell’arte al villanel son tutte cose piane, e l’erba e l’acqua e ’l latte è la sua parte; e ’l cantar rozzo, e ’ calli delle mane, è ’l dieci e ’l cento e ’ conti e lo suo carte dell’usura che ’n terra surger vede; e senza affanno alla fortuna cede. Onora e ama e teme e prega Dio pe’ pascol, per l’armento e pel lavoro, con fede, con ispeme e con desio, per la gravida vacca e pel bel toro. El Dubbio, el Forse, el Come, el Perché rio no ’l può ma’ far, ché non istà fra loro: se con semplice fede adora e prega Iddio e ’l ciel, l’un lega e l’altro piega. El Dubbio armato e zoppo si figura, e va saltando come la locuste,



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And Envy makes you watch your neighbor’s door. You cannot see, in all this fiery greed, That time is brief, and limited, your need. Men of the golden age were satisfied With water and with acorns – let them be Your model, then, your mirror and your guide, And curb at last your lust and luxury. Listen to me, my words do not deride: The king who rules over both land and sea Is looking still for happiness and bliss: And a small country lad knows where it is. Adorned with gems, in golden dresses clad, But scared, Wealth goes about, forever pensive: Every wind, every rain can make her sad, And each new omen makes her apprehensive. But, running from her. Poverty is glad, And gathers, as she goes, the most expensive Treasures: she dwells alone, her dress is rough, But, in these woods, oh, how much better off! To see new customs; to receive and own; The good, or bad, or still the best in art: To a small country lad are things unknown. Water and grass and milk – these are his part, Plus his strong hands, and his rough, happy tune; He counts on his own fingers, has no chart Of usury (is this bad grass that springs?): He does not worry – God takes care of things. He loves, fears God, and asks him to be good To his grass, to his sheep and to their wool, And his faith tells him God has understood And the calf will be born most beautiful. Harsh Doubt, that makes all others think and brood, All these sweet people cannot harm at all: Their simple prayers can so high ascend As to bind God and make all heaven bend. Let Doubt, as painters make him, keep his gout, And limp from place to place just like a locust:

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo tremando d’ogni tempo per natura, qual suole al vento far canna paluste. El Perché è magro, e ’ntorn’alla cintura ha molte chiave, e non son tanto giuste, c’agugina gl’ingegni della porta, e va di notte, e ’l buio è la suo scorta. El Come e ’l Forse son parenti stretti, e son giganti di sì grande altezza, c’al sol andar ciascun par si diletti, e ciechi fur per mirar suo chiarezza; e quello alle città co’ fieri petti tengon, per tutto adombran lor bellezza; e van per vie fra sassi erte e distorte, tentando colle man qual istà forte. Povero e nudo e sol se ne va ’l Vero, che fra la gente umìle ha gran valore: un occhio ha sol, qual è lucente e mero, e ’l corpo ha d’oro, e d’adamante ’l core; e negli affanni cresce e fassi altero, e ’n mille luoghi nasce, se ’n un muore; di fuor verdeggia sì come smeraldo, e sta co’ suo fedel costante e saldo. Cogli occhi onesti e bassi in ver’ la terra, vestito d’oro e di vari ricami, il Falso va, c’a’ iusti sol fa guerra; ipocrito, di fuor par c’ognuno ami; perch’è di ghiaccio, al sol si cuopre e serra; sempre sta ’n corte, e par che l’ombra brami; e ha per suo sostegno e compagnia la Fraude, la Discordia e la Bugia. L’Adulazion v’è poi, ch’è pien d’affanni, giovane destra e di bella persona; di più color coperta di più panni, che ’l cielo a primavera a’ fior non dona: ottien ciò che la vuol con dolci inganni, e sol di quel che piace altrui ragiona; ha ’l pianto e ’l riso in una voglia sola; cogli occhi adora, e con le mani invola.



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Trembling by nature, look, he goes about, Like a reed scared by the least blowing gust. Hungry and thin, he never walks without His bunch of keys that never fit: they just Corrode and force the bolts of every door; He walks by night, and darkness goes before. Perhaps and How to him are closest kin, – They are two giants of so steep a height, That each of them seems bold enough to win The sun, which dazzles them with its great light; Whatever beauty cities hold within, They with their shoulders seem to hide and fight: They tread on stony roads both wrong and steep, Groping with hands before they take each step. Naked and poor and lonely. Truth goes by, Still loved by humble people as of old: He has one eye, but great and bright like sky, His heart is adamant, his body, gold; Anguish and sorrow make him grow and fly; Killed in one place, he rises ever bold Elsewhere; his raiment is emerald-green; Among his faithful he is always seen. With downcast forehead and with glances prone, But with embroidered veil and golden dress, Falsity comes to trap the just alone. A hypocrite, her love seems vast and selfless; Being of ice, she shuns and fears the sun; Around a throne, she broods and schemes in darkness; Her company, her help and her support Are discord, fraud, and lie of every sort. And now comes Flattery with all her woes: Very good-looking, deft, and very young, She shows more colors in her many clothes Than all the buds that from the earth have sprung; She gets all things in the sweet way she knows, And, only to please others, moves her tongue: Laughter and tears she has at her command, And adores with her glance, steals with her hand.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Non è sol madre in corte all’opre orrende, ma è lor balia ancora, e col suo latte le cresce, l’aümenta e le difende. ………… (G 68; T 69) ………… Un gigante v’è ancor, d’altezza tanta che da’ sua occhi noi qua giù non vede, e molte volte ha ricoperta e franta una città colla pianta del piede; al sole aspira e l’alte torre pianta per aggiunger al cielo, e non lo vede, ché ’l corpo suo, così robusto e magno, un occhio ha solo e quell’ha ’n un calcagno. Vede per terra le cose passate, e ’l capo ha fermo e prossim’a le stelle; di qua giù se ne vede dua giornate delle gran gambe, e irsut’ ha la pelle; da indi in su non ha verno né state, ché le stagion gli sono equali e belle; e come ’l ciel fa pari alla suo fronte, in terra al pian col piè fa ogni monte. Com’a noi è ’l minuzzol dell’arena, sotto la pianta a lui son le montagne; fra ’ folti pel delle suo gambe mena diverse forme mostruose e magne: per mosca vi sarebbe una balena; e sol si turba e sol s’attrista e piagne quando in quell’occhio il vento seco tira fummo o festuca o polvere che gira. Una gran vecchia pigra e lenta ha seco, che latta e mamma l’orribil figura, e ’l suo arrogante, temerario e cieco ardir conforta e sempre rassicura. Fuor di lui stassi in un serrato speco, nelle gran rocche e dentro all’alte mura; quand’è lui in ozio, e le’ in tenebre vive, e sol inopia nel popol prescrive.



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In court she is the mother of all crimes, And nourishes and feeds them at her breast, Making them stronger, safer, at all times. ………… (G 68; T 69)58 ………… There is a giant too, so very tall That he can never see us down below, And many times, alas, he did annul More than one city with his crashing toe. He wants the sun and, so, wall over wall He raises toward the sky to which he’s foe; But up he cannot gaze: his body of steel Has but one eye, and that beneath the heel. Thus on the ground he can behold the past, While, motionless, his head is close to the sky. Just like a two days’ walk his legs are vast, And, all over, his skin is hairy and dry. Up from the hips, he minds no sun nor frost: All seasons, for him, beautifully fly. His forehead looms not lower than God’s heaven, Just as all mountains and his feet are even. Less than a grain of sand beneath our foot, All mountains are beneath his toes – far less. Through the thick hairs of the legs of the brute Are several monsters of much ugliness: A whale would seem a fly caught in his loot. He shakes and cries with tears of restlessness If but a breath of wind blowing below Should hurt his eye with smoke or sand or straw. A huge, a lurid, lazy, old hag is there, Breast-feeding that huge, horrible, hungry man; To stir his blind bold rage is but her care And she does well the only evil she can. When not with him, she hides in a den bare And barren, between mountains, lost, alone. When he is lazy, she in darkness dwells, And misery to all, her breathing spells.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Palida e gialla, e nel suo grave seno il segno porta sol del suo signore: cresce del mal d’altrui, del ben vien meno, né s’empie per cibarsi a tutte l’ore; il corso suo non ha termin né freno, e odia altrui e sé non porta amore; di pietra ha ’l core e di ferro le braccia, e nel suo ventre il mare e ’ monti caccia. Sette lor nati van sopra la terra, che cercan tutto l’uno e l’altro polo, e solo a’ iusti fanno insidie e guerra, e mille capi ha ciascun per sé solo. L’etterno abisso per lor s’apre e serra, tal preda fan nell’universo stuolo; e lor membra ci prendon passo passo, come edera fa el mur fra sasso e sasso. (G 69; T 70) Ben provvide natura, né conviene a tanta crudeltà minor bellezza, ché l’un contrario l’altro ha temperato. Così può ’l viso vostro le mie pene tante temprar con piccola dolcezza, e lieve fare quelle e me beato. (G 70; T 71) Crudele stella, anzi crudele arbitrio che ’l potere e ’l voler mi stringe e lega; ………… (G 71; T 68) I’ l’ho, vostra mercè, per ricevuto e hollo letto delle volte venti. Tal pro vi facci alla natura i denti, co’ ’l cibo al corpo quand’egli è pasciuto. I’ ho pur, poi ch’i’ vi lasciai, saputo che Cain fu de’ vostri anticedenti, né voi da quel tralignate altrimenti; ché, s’altri ha ben, vel pare aver perduto.



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Yellow and wan, she bears upon her breast The bleeding wound and mark of her lord alone. All people’s evil makes her fat and blest, Good makes her thin and hungry in each bone. She always stalks about and knows no rest, Hating the world and herself. Her heart is stone, Her arms are rusted iron: mountains and sea She hurls into her stomach hungrily. Their offspring – seven in all – are tossed and thrust Upon the earth from pole to distant pole: They wreck the good, and trap and slay the just. Each of them has a thousand heads. Their goal? To open and close the chasm of the lost, To make a prey of every living soul. Their limbs cling to us all, wherever we walk, As ivy does to a wall from rock to rock. (G 69; T 70)59 Nature did all things well: great cruelty Must be endowed with beauty just as great, So as to make the two extremes quite even. Your face can, thus, both soothe my misery And, with a bit of sweetness, liberate My soul and make it soar in bliss to heaven. (G 70; T 71)60 O cruel star, – oh no – O cruel fate, Binding and linking all my will and power, ………… (G 71; T 68)61 Yes, I have got it – thanks – and I have read And read and read it nineteen times plus one. May your teeth do to you the good that’s done By extra food to a body well fed! Since my departure from you, I have known Your ancestors by Cain himself were bred: That’s why you look like him in soul and head. The good you people see, you call your own.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Invidiosi, superbi, al ciel nimici, la carità del prossimo v’è a noia, e sol del vostro danno siete amici. Se ben dice il Poeta di Pistoia, istieti a mente, e basta; e se tu dici ben di Fiorenza, tu mi dai la soia.      Qual prezïosa gioia è certo, ma per te già non si intende, perché poca virtù non la comprende. (G 72; T 50) Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede, altro segno non ho più manifesto della mie fiamma; addunche basti or questo, signor mie caro, a domandar mercede. Forse lo spirto tuo, con maggior fede ch’i’ non credo, che sguarda il foco onesto che m’arde, fie di me pietoso e presto, come grazia c’abbonda a chi ben chiede. O felice quel dì, se questo è certo! Fermisi in un momento il tempo e l’ore, il giorno e ’l sol nella su’ antica traccia; acciò ch’i’ abbi, e non già per mie merto, il desïato mie dolce signore per sempre nell’indegne e pronte braccia. (G 73; T 51) Mentre del foco son scacciata e priva, morir m’è forza, ove si vive e campa; e ’l mie cibo è sol quel c’arde e avvampa, e di quel c’altri muor, convien ch’i’ viva. (G 74; T 52) I’ piango, i’ ardo, i’ mi consumo, e ’l core di questo si nutrisce. O dolce sorte! chi è che viva sol della suo morte, come fo io d’affanni e di dolore? Ahi! crudele arcier, tu sai ben l’ore da far tranquille l’angosciose e corte miserie nostre con la tuo man forte; ché chi vive di morte mai non muore.



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Envious and proud, and enemies of God, You love your neighbor with black stratagem. And you have but one friend left – your own mud. Never forget the Poet’s apothegm About Pistoia: that will do. You say Well of Florence? Ah ah, your words contemn.      She is a precious gem, Of course; but for your skull she is too much: For certain beauty you can never clutch. (G 72; T 50)62 Since in one’s face one’s heart you see and sense, More evident a sign I cannot show Of my heart’s flame. O Lord, now that you know, I should be free to seek my recompense. Perhaps your spirit, with a faith immense, Seeing this sacred fire that makes me glow, Will rush to me in pity, and bestow The grace I ask you with such confidence. Happy that hour (O strongly I believe), When in one moment time and day and sun Will stop their ancient race with no alarms, And I, not through my merit, shall receive My gracious Lord I sought, my only One, Forever in my unworthy ready arms. (G 73; T 51) If you detain me from the living fire That makes all people live, I quickly die. Of my bright burning food I never tire: In this all others find their death – not I. (G 74; T 52) I cry, I burn, I waste away; my heart Can only feed on this – O happy me! Can one be nurtured by one’s agony As I am now by anguish and by smart? With your strong hand, fierce archer, you impart At the right moment sweet serenity To soothe, but not to stop, our misery: Who lives on death, from life must never part.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 75; T 53) Egli è pur troppo a rimirarsi intorno chi con la vista ancide i circustanti ………… sol per mostrarsi andar diporto attorno. Egli è pur troppo a chi fa notte il giorno, scurando il sol co’ vaghi e be’ sembianti, ………… ………… aprirgli spesso, e chi con risi e canti ammuta altrui non esser meno adorno. (G 76; T 75) Non so se s’è la desïata luce del suo primo fattor, che l’alma sente, o se dalla memoria della gente alcun’altra beltà nel cor traluce; o se fama o se sogno alcun produce agli occhi manifesto, al cor presente, di sé lasciando un non so che cocente ch’è forse or quel c’a pianger mi conduce. Quel ch’i’ sento e ch’i’ cerco e chi mi guidi meco non è; né so ben veder dove trovar mel possa, e par c’altri mel mostri. Questo, signor, m’avvien, po’ ch’i’ vi vidi, c’un dolce amaro, un sì e no mi muove: certo saranno stati gli occhi vostri. (G 77; T 55) Se ’l foco fusse alla bellezza equale degli occhi vostri, che da que’ si parte, non avrie ’l mondo sì gelata parte che non ardessi com’acceso strale. Ma ’l ciel, pietoso d’ogni nostro male, a noi d’ogni beltà, che ’n voi comparte, la visiva virtù toglie e diparte per tranquillar la vita aspr’e mortale. Non è par dunche il foco alla beltate, ché sol di quel s’infiamma e s’innamora altri del bel del ciel, ch’è da lui inteso.



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(G 75; T 53)63 How can you have him always in your way, If with his eyes he kills all those around? ………… It would suffice to see him on his way. He is too much to one who wants the day, If even the sun, his glances can confound. ………… ………… To let him in? But with laughter and sound He deafens all, to be himself more gay. (G 76; T 75)64 Whether it be the long-desired light Of its first Maker, which my soul feels deep, Or whether some remembrance that I keep Of human beauty, burning warm and bright, Returning from afar to still excite My heart, and rouse my dream from its dark sleep, Something is here in me, a throb, a plight, Forcing my soul to cry, my eyes to weep. But I have no one who may guide me now To what I feel and seek; nor can I sense Where I may find what others seem to know. O my dear Lord, since I beheld your brow, Am I in such a bitter-sweet suspense: It must have been your eyes to change me so! (G 77; T 55)65 If the fire that issues from your eyes And their sweet beauty should be quite the same, No region of the world, though full of ice, Would ever be immune to their great flame. But heaven, understanding man’s weak frame, Found, for our sake, this merciful device: To make us suffer less, it had to tame, Oh not your beauty, but our longing eyes. So, fire and beauty are on different stage: A man can only fall in love and yearn For as much heaven as he understands.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Così n’avvien, signore, in questa etate: se non vi par per voi ch’i’ arda e mora, poca capacità m’ha poco acceso. (G 78; T 106) Dal dolce pianto al doloroso riso, da una etterna a una corta pace caduto son: là dove ’l ver si tace, soprasta ’l senso a quel da lui diviso. Né so se dal mie core o dal tuo viso la colpa vien del mal, che men dispiace quante più cresce, o dall’ardente face de gli occhi tuo rubati al paradiso. La tuo beltà non è cosa mortale, ma fatta su dal ciel fra noi divina; ond’io perdendo ardendo mi conforto, c’appresso a te non esser posso tale. Se l’arme il ciel del mie morir destina, chi può, s’i’ muoio, dir c’abbiate il torto? (G 79; T 88) Felice spirto, che con zelo ardente, vecchio alla morte, in vita il mio cor tieni, e fra mill’altri tuo diletti e beni me sol saluti fra più nobil gente; come mi fusti agli occhi, or alla mente, per l’altru’ fiate a consolar mi vieni, onde la speme il duol par che raffreni, che non men che ’l disio l’anima sente. Dunche, trovando in te chi per me parla grazia di te per me fra tante cure, tal grazia ne ringrazia chi ti scrive. Che sconcia e grande usur saria a farla, donandoti turpissime pitture per rïaver persone belle e vive. (G 80; T 89) I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’io mira’ tante bellezze uniche e sole, fermar gli occhi com’aquila nel sole



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Therefore, my Lord, do not condemn my age: You think my love for you can barely burn, But small capacity has small demands. (G 78; T 106)66 Into the ache of laughter from sweet cries I fell, – into a peace that cannot last, From one, eternal; truth away now cast, My senses intervene to tyrannize. Do all these torments from my heart arise, Or from your face? Since they hurt less, the vaster They grow, it must then be that burning-fast Torch of your eyes, stolen from paradise. Your beauty cannot be a mortal thing, But something made to be divine on earth. Vanquished, therefore, and all aflame, now I Comfort myself for being flesh, not wing. If in your hand you bear my fatal death, Who will dare blame you, if from you I die? (G 79; T 88)67 O happy soul, an old man’s heart – so close To death – you keep alive with all your grace, And comfort only me, while many are those Who, more than I, deserve such happiness. As once you pleased my eyes, you now caress My mind with gentle peace which no one knows, And in this warmth my hope blossoms and grows – My hope that is desire, more or less. Knowing, therefore, your thoughts, so kind to me – Among your cares both infinite and high – I do not know what equal thanks to give. For mine would be a lurid usury If with my awful paintings I should try To thank you for your verse that makes one live. (G 80; T 89) I did believe, the day I suddenly Beheld so many wonders become one, My eyes had reached, as eagle in the sun,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo nella minor di tante ch’i’ desio. Po’ conosciut’ho il fallo e l’erro mio: ché chi senz’ale un angel seguir vole, il seme a’ sassi, al vento le parole indarno isparge, e l’intelletto a Dio. Dunche, s’appresso il cor non mi sopporta l’infinita beltà che gli occhi abbaglia, né di lontan par m’assicuri o fidi, che fie di me? qual guida o qual scorta fie che con teco ma’ mi giovi o vaglia, s’appresso m’ardi e nel partir m’uccidi? (G 81; T 109-10) Ogni cosa ch’i’ veggio mi consiglia e priega e forza ch’i’ vi segua e ami; ché quel che non è voi non è ’l mie bene. Amor, che sprezza ogni altra maraviglia, per mie salute vuol ch’i’ cerchi e brami voi, sole, solo; e così l’alma tiene d’ogni alta spene e d’ogni valor priva; e vuol ch’i’ arda e viva non sol di voi, ma chi di voi somiglia degli occhi e delle ciglia alcuna parte. E chi da voi si parte, occhi, mie vita, non ha luce poi; ché ’l ciel non è dove non siate voi.

(G 82; T 63) Non posso altra figura immaginarmi o di nud’ombra o di terrestre spoglia, col più alto pensier, tal che mie voglia contra la tuo beltà di quella s’armi. Ché da te mosso, tanto scender parmi, c’Amor d’ogni valor mi priva e spoglia, ond’a pensar di minuir mie doglia, duplicando, la morte viene a darmi. Però non val che più sproni mie fuga, doppiando ’l corso alla beltà nemica,



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The least of beauties I still long to see. But soon I knew how wrong man’s mind can be: Who, wingless, like an angel hopes to run, He casts a seed on stones, his words are none But wind, his thoughts of God, mortality. Since, then, your dazzling beauty does not let My heart come near, and even from afar Seems to deny me hope, what shall I do? What help, what guidance can I find, to get Closer at last to this immortal star That burns me, near, and kills me if I go? (G 81; T 109-10)68 In everything I see I find advice To follow you and love you evermore: Whatever you are not, is not my joy. Love who, because of you, can now despise All other wonders, tells me I am safe Only in loving you, My sun, and holds my soul In thrall of hope. Reminded of my goal, I am commanded, then, to seek but you, Or those who, only in part, Have something of your lashes and your eyes. Oh, but should one depart, Even a moment, love, from your sweet eyes, One could no longer hope for any sunrise: Where you are not, there is no paradise. (G 82; T 63)69 No beauty can I picture in my mind, Either of person or inanimate thing, That could so kindle my imagining As to succeed in dimming yours behind. Away from you, my Lord, myself I find So lost, and low, and rid of everything, That, as I try to ease my suffering, I doubly die, alone and unresigned. Why should I think of running any faster Away from cruel beauty that pursues?

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo ché ’l men dal più veloce non si scosta. Amor con le sue man gli occhi m’asciuga, promettendomi cara ogni fatica; ché vile esser non può chi tanto costa. (G 83; T 64) Veggio nel tuo bel viso, signor mio, quel che narrar mal puossi in questa vita: l’anima, della carne ancor vestita, con esso è già più volte ascesa a Dio. E se ’l vulgo malvagio, isciocco e rio, di quel che sente, altrui segna e addita, non è l’intensa voglia men gradita, l’amor, la fede e l’onesto desio. A quel pietoso fonte, onde siàn tutti, s’assembra ogni beltà che qua si vede più c’altra cosa alle persone accorte; né altro saggio abbiàn né altri frutti del cielo in terra; e chi v’ama con fede trascende a Dio e fa dolce la morte. (G 84; T 65) Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro è l’alto e ’l basso e ’l medïocre stile, e ne’ marmi l’immagin ricca e vile, secondo che ’l sa trar l’ingegno nostro; così, signor mie car, nel petto vostro, quante l’orgoglio è forse ogni atto umile; ma io sol quel c’a me propio è e simile ne traggo, come fuor nel viso mostro. Chi semina sospir, lacrime e doglie, (l’umor dal ciel terreste, schietto e solo, a vari semi vario si converte), però pianto e dolor ne miete e coglie; chi mira alta beltà con sì gran duolo, ne ritra’ doglie e pene acerbe e certe. ………… (G 85; T 57) Risposta del Buon’arroto in nome di fra Bastiano.



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Who run, they cannot cope with those who fly. Promising me all sweetness, Love, my master, Wipes with his hand my tears. I must deduce So high a price bespeaks a worth as high. (G 83; T 64)70 My Lord, in your fair face I see all things That in this life I hardly can relate. So many a time to God’s abode it brings My soul with all its body’s harmful weight. Bad people with their evil gossipings Seem eager to misjudge and underrate, But honest longing, love, and faith, and wings Cannot, because of them, become less great. That fount of pity, whence we all descend, We are reminded of by beauty here, If evil thoughts are shunned, oh no, abhorred. No better token of light can heaven send To us on earth: and the pure and sincere Soar to God and think death a sweet reward. (G 84; T 65)71 As in the pen or ink of any man Is the high, or the low, or common style, And as in stone the statue great or vile, Which, to draw forth, we do the best we can; So in your heart, perhaps, as I do scan, Hide, O my Lord, for me to reconcile, Your boundless pride and your as boundless smile: But to draw this outside – cannot plan. Mountains and beasts and sounds and grass of the field, If they could talk like us, would doubtless say What medicine is best to heal our wounds. In you, perhaps, my peace is deep concealed And could, if out, soon change my stormy day. …………

(G 85; T 57)72 Answer of Buonarroto in Fra Bastiano’s Name

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Com’io ebbi la vostra, signor mio, cercand’andai fra tutti e’ cardinali e diss’a tre da vostra part’ addio. Al Medico maggior de’ nostri mali mostrai la detta, onde ne rise tanto che ’l naso fe’ dua parti dell’occhiali. Il servito da voi pregiat’ e santo costà e qua, sì come voi scrivete, n’ebbe piacer, che ne ris’altro tanto. A quel che tien le cose più secrete del Medico minor non l’ho ancor visto; farebbes’anche a lui, se fusse prete. Ècci molt’altri che rinegon Cristo che voi non siate qua; né dà lor noia ché chi non crede si tien manco tristo. Di voi a tutti caverò la foia di questa vostra; e chi non si contenta affogar possa per le man del boia. La Carne che nel sal si purg’ e stenta che saria buon per carbonat’ ancora di voi più che di sé par si rammenta. Il nostro Buonarroto, che v’adora, visto la vostra, se ben veggio, parmi c’al ciel si lievi mille volte ogn’ora; e dice che la vita de’ sua marmi non basta a far il vostro nom’eterno, come lui fanno i divin vostri carmi. Ai qual non nuoce né state né verno, dal temp’ esenti e da morte crudele, che fama di virtù non ha in governo. E come vostro amico e mio fedele disse: – Ai dipinti, visti i versi belli, s’appiccon voti e s’accendon candele.



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My Lord, the hour your letter came to me, About I went, seeking all Cardinals, And gave at last your greetings to those three. When to the major Medic of our ills I showed your letter, – well – he laughed so much As to shake the frame of his spectacles. Even the one you deem above reproach, And like to serve all over, as you write, Was glad to read it, and delighted much. The one who keeps the things most recondite Of our good minor Medic, I’ve not seen yet: Were he a priest, he too would have the right. Others there are, who would deny, I bet, Christ for your presence, more and more in demand (The less they show their faith, the more they get). Well, I will show your words to the whole band, And if someone should think of any fault – O let him fall into the hangman’s hand. Monsignor Meat-still-seasoning-in-salt (He would be also tender on the grate) Remembers you, more than himself, I’m told. Our Buonarroto, whose esteem is great, Since he has read your letter, cannot be Himself as yet – his joy does not abate, All of his sculptures cannot give, says he, Immortal life and splendor to your name. As you give his through your great poetry, – So great indeed as to be safe from aim Of cruel time or change of taste or fate: True value cannot suffer death or blame. As your dear friend and as my faithful mate, He said: “My paintings are admired because His verse to them is more than candles lit.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Dunque i’ son pur nel numero di quelli, da un goffo pittor senza valore cavato a’ pennell’ e alberelli. Il Bernia ringraziate per mio amore, che fra tanti lui sol conosc’ il vero di me; ché chi mi stim’ è ’n grand’errore. Ma la sua disciplin’ el lum’ intero mi può ben dar, e gran miracol fia, a far un uom dipint’ un uom da vero. – Così mi disse; e io per cortesia vel raccomando quanto so e posso, che fia l’apportator di questa mia. Mentre la scrivo a vers’a verso, rosso diveng’assai, pensando a cui la mando, send’ il mio non professo, goffo e grosso. Pur nondimen così mi raccomando anch’io a voi, e altro non accade; d’ogni tempo son vostro e d’ogni quando. A voi nel numer delle cose rade tutto mi v’offerisco, e non pensate ch’i’ manchi, se ’l cappuccio non mi cade. Così vi dico e giuro, e certo siate, ch’i’ non farei per me quel che per voi: e non m’abbiat’a schifo come frate. Comandatemi, e fate poi da voi. (G 86; T 58) Ancor che ’l cor già mi premesse tanto, per mie scampo credendo il gran dolore n’uscissi con le lacrime e col pianto, fortuna al fonte di cotale umore le radice e le vene ingrassa e ’mpingua per morte, e non per pena o duol minore,



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“I feel myself a painting – one of those Which a tough painter with no skill or worth Obtains by mixing colors as he goes. “Thank Berni, then, the only one on earth Who knows me well, but tell him that I plan To remind him my worth is just a myth. “His greatness may inspire an artisan To make, some day, – a miracle indeed – At least one worthy painting: a real man.” These things he told me; now with all my speed I want to send the present letter off, For you must have a great desire to read. While I am writing this appalling stuff, I blush, for I know well to whom it goes: My verse is unprofessional, rude and rough. No other news down here; so let me close With all my warmest gratitude to you: I am forever at your full disposal. To you, who are a thing so rare and new, I offer all myself, and this, as long As I live and my hood can still go through. I say and swear that I would rather wrong Myself than you, my Lord. I go in peace And ask your pardon for being a monk. Command me, and do, then, whatever you please. (G 86; T 58)73 Alas, I thought I had already shed All my tears, and my heart could not sustain Any more breaking since my brother dead. But fate, alas, has struck me once again, Coming to quench once more its bitter thirst In my new tears and in this greater pain.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo col tuo partire; onde convien destingua dal figlio prima e tu morto dipoi, del quale or parlo, pianto, penna e lingua. L’un m’era frate, e tu padre di noi; l’amore a quello, a te l’obrigo strigne: non so qual pena più mi stringa o nòi. La memoria ’l fratel pur mi dipigne, e te sculpisce vivo in mezzo il core, che ’l core e ’l volto più m’affligge e tigne. Pur mi quieta che il debito, c’all’ore pagò ’l mio frate acerbo, e tu maturo; ché manco duole altrui chi vecchio muore. Tanto all’increscitor men aspro e duro esser dié ’l caso quant’è più necesse, là dove ’l ver dal senso è più sicuro. Ma chi è quel che morto non piangesse suo caro padre, c’ha veder non mai quel che vedea infinite volte o spesse? Nostri intensi dolori e nostri guai son come più e men ciascun gli sente: quant’in me posson tu, Signor, tel sai. E se ben l’alma alla ragion consente, tien tanto in collo, che vie più abbondo po’ doppo quella in esser più dolente. E se ’l pensier, nel quale i’ mi profondo non fussi che ’l ben morto in ciel si ridi del timor della morte in questo mondo, crescere’ ’l duol; ma ’ dolorosi stridi temprati son d’una credenza ferma che ’l ben vissuto a morte me’ s’annidi. Nostro intelletto dalla carne inferma è tanto oppresso, che ’l morir più spiace quanto più ’l falso persuaso afferma.



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Now you have gone. I must distinguish first Between a son and you, my father, – you Whom I am mourning with my spirit lost. To one, affection; gratitude is due To you, our father, for our life assigned: Oh, I know not which ache can more undo. My brother is now painted in my mind, But you are sculpted in my deepest heart, And on my face is weeping all mankind. My brother paid his debt for but a start In life, and you paid yours to life’s ripe age: We should not suffer when old men depart. They say that, when expected, fate’s outrage Should hurt much less, for only then is clear The truth unyielding to the senses’ pledge. Yet, how can I not weep over my dear Dear father, to whose arms I shall not go Any more, as I did, now or next year? According to men’s feelings, pain and woe Can differently grow or soon abate: How strong they are in me, you, then, must know. And though the soul must run to reason’s bait. Sorrow remains with us more than we think, And makes far worse both mood and mental state. Without the thought, in which I like to sink, – That you, now dead, in paradise must smile At us, still fearing death, still on the brink Of despair, – sorrow would increase. Meanwhile, Our tears are comforted by our belief In what rewards the just, past this exile. So much oppressed by mortal flesh’s grief Is, ah, man’s mind, that death excites more fright The more we heed the senses’ unbelief.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Novanta volte el sol suo chiara face prim’ha nell’oceàn bagnata e molle, che tu sie giunto alla divina pace. Or che nostra miseria el ciel ti tolle, increscati di me, che morto vivo, come tuo mezzo qui nascer mi volle. Tu se’ del morir morto e fatto divo, né tem’or più cangiar vita né voglia, che quasi senza invidia non lo scrivo. Fortuna e ’l tempo dentro a vostra soglia non tenta trapassar, per cui s’adduce fra no’ dubbia letizia e certa doglia. Nube non è che scuri vostra luce, l’ore distinte a voi non fanno forza, caso o necessità non vi conduce. Vostro splendor per notte non s’ammorza, né cresce ma’ per giorno, benché chiaro, sie quand’el sol fra no’ il caldo rinforza. Nel tuo morire el mie morire imparo, padre mie caro, e nel pensier ti veggio dove ’l mondo passar ne fa di raro. Non è, com’alcun crede, morte il peggio a chi l’ultimo dì trascende al primo, per grazia, etterno appresso al divin seggio dove, Die grazia, ti prosumo e stimo e spero di veder, se ’l freddo core mie ragion tragge dal terrestre limo. E se tra l’ padre e ’l figlio ottimo amore cresce nel ciel, crescendo ogni virtute, ………… (G 87; T 140) Vorrei voler, Signor, quel ch’io non voglio:



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Full ninety times the sun has risen bright, And sunk with all its rays into the sea, Before you reached at last God’s peaceful light. Now, being far from all our misery, Oh, pity me, who, although dead, live still On earth, where, without you, I would not be. Now you have died to death; now neither will Nor fear can make you restless any more: Oh, as I write, how envious I feel! Vicissitudes of time can never soar To where you are, while here we still are crushed By doubt of joy and certainty of war. By no dark cloud your light is ever hushed, For our years, numbered, us alone defeat,– Us, tossed about by time and sorely anguished. Your splendor, oh, no night will ever split, Nor can the rising morning make more clear As it does here, where dawn soon turns to heat. Oh, from your death I learn my own, my dear Dear father, but I know at last you live Above, where no base spirit goes from here. Death is no evil, as some men believe, If one’s last sunset reach one’s first bright day Through grace and, thus, eternity achieve. There, where you live in God, I hope and pray To see you once again, if reason comes To warm my heart out of its earthly clay. And since, by growth of virtue, love becomes Fonder between a father and his son, ………… (G 87; T 140)74 O let me wish what I want not, O Lord.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo tra ’l foco e ’l cor di ghiaccia un vel s’asconde che ’l foco ammorza, onde non corrisponde la penna all’opre, e fa bugiardo ’l foglio. I’ t’amo con la lingua, e poi mi doglio c’amor non giunge al cor; né so ben onde apra l’uscio alla grazia che s’infonde nel cor, che scacci ogni spietato orgoglio. Squarcia ’l vel tu, Signor, rompi quel muro che con la suo durezza ne ritarda il sol della tuo luce, al mondo spenta! Manda ’l preditto lume a noi venturo, alla tuo bella sposa, acciò ch’io arda il cor senz’alcun dubbio, e te sol senta. (G 88; T 109-18) Sento d’un foco un freddo aspetto acceso che lontan m’arde e sé con seco agghiaccia; pruovo una forza in due leggiadre braccia che muove senza moto ogni altro peso. Unico spirto e da me solo inteso, che non ha morte e morte altrui procaccia, veggio e truovo chi, sciolto, ’l cor m’allaccia, e da chi giova sol mi sento offeso. Com’esser può, signor, che d’un bel volto ne porti ’l mio così contrari effetti, se mal può chi non gli ha donar altrui? Onde al mio viver lieto, che m’ha tolto, fa forse come ’l sol, se nol permetti, che scalda ’l mondo e non è caldo lui. (G 89; T 109-19) Veggio co’ be’ vostr’occhi un dolce lume che co’ mie ciechi già veder non posso; porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo addosso, che de’ mie zoppi non è già costume. Volo con le vostr’ale senza piume; col vostro ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso; dal vostro arbitrio son pallido e rosso, freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.



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Between your love and me a veil of ice There is, because of which all ardor dies, And lies – not deeds – my pen can but record. My loving words and heart find no accord, Being apart, and never my thought tries To let your grace into my soul that cries, So that my cruel pride be soon abhorred. Oh, rend this veil, my Lord! Break down the wall That with its hardness keeps away from us The sun of your sweet light the world once knew! Bestow your future splendor on us all, On your fair bride – my soul – , and only thus, Free from all doubt. I’ll love, feel only You. (G 88; T 109-18)75 From far away, a cold face utters, straight To me, its burning flame, and remains quite As cold. Two arms are exquisite and light, And yet are heavy more than any weight. A gentle heart I know (O cruel fate!) Is only sunrise, yet gives others night. He has no chains, and yet he holds one tight, And only harms, whose kindness is so great. How can it be, my lord, that from so fair A face can come results so opposite? One only gives those things one has to share. Oh, now I know: you wanted to delete My happy days, and did, you must admit, Just like the sun: it gives – dies not of – heat (G 89; T 109-19)76 Through your beautiful eyes I see a sun Which, through my own, I could not ever find; I carry on your feet, and do not mind, What my own, limping still, could not have done. I, wingless, with your wings can more than run. My mind can soar to heaven with your mind. Your wish can make me pale, or blush; consigned To flames, I freeze; in ice, I die of sun.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia, i miei pensier nel vostro cor si fanno, nel vostro fiato son le mie parole. Come luna da sé sol par ch’io sia, ché gli occhi nostri in ciel veder non sanno se non quel tanto che n’accende il sole. (G 90; T 109-95) I’ mi son caro assai più ch’i’ non soglio; poi ch’i’ t’ebbi nel cor più di me vaglio, come pietra c’aggiuntovi l’intaglio è di più pregio che ’l suo primo scoglio. O come scritta o pinta carta o foglio più si riguarda d’ogni straccio o taglio, tal di me fo, da po’ ch’i’ fu’ berzaglio segnato dal tuo viso, e non mi doglio. Sicur con tale stampa in ogni loco vo, come quel c’ha incanti o arme seco, c’ogni periglio gli fan venir meno. I’ vaglio contr’a l’acqua e contr’al foco, col segno tuo rallumino ogni cieco, e col mie sputo sano ogni veleno. (G 91; T 109-30-31) Perc’all’estremo ardore che toglie e rende poi il chiuder e l’aprir degli occhi tuoi duri più la mie vita, fatti son calamita di me, de l’alma e d’ogni mie valore; tal c’anciderm’ Amore, forse perch’è pur cieco, indugia, triema e teme. C’a passarmi nel core, sendo nel tuo con teco, pungere’ prima le tuo parte streme e perché meco insieme non mora, non m’ancide. O gran martire, c’una doglia mortal, senza morire, raddoppia quel languire



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My only will is in your will alone, My very thoughts are born within your heart, And only in your breath my words can be. If left alone, I am just like the moon: Of all its light, our eyes can see a part – Only that much the sun grants us to see. (G 90; T 109-95)77 I feel more precious, I am more than one, For, since you held my heart, my worth grew more: A marble block, when carving has been done, Is not the rough, cheap stone it was before. As paper painted or just written on No longer is a rag one can ignore, So, since you looked at me, and I was won, My value has increased for evermore. Now, with your splendor printed on my face, I go like one who, dressed with every kind Of amulets and arms, can dare all wars. I can walk on the ocean, brave all blaze, Give in your name the light to all the blind, And my saliva heals all poisonous sores. (G 91; T 109-30-31) So that my life may last, And still endure the motion of your eyes, They always magnetize My soul, my every talent, all of me; That is why Love, though blind, Still hesitates to end my agony. To kill my heart, he first would have to pierce Your own, in which mine is, And he spares me to spare your beauty’s bliss. O cruel pain! A mortal anguish makes My sorrow last, which would be quickly over If I were not your lover. Oh, give me to myself, and make me die!

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del qual, s’i’ fussi meco, sare’ fora. Deh rendim’ a me stesso, acciò ch’i’ mora. (G 92; T 109-33) Quantunche ’l tempo ne costringa e sproni ognor con maggior guerra a rendere alla terra le membra afflitte, stanche e pellegrine, non ha per ’ncor fine chi l’alma attrista e me fa così lieto. Né par che men perdoni a chi ’l cor m’apre e serra, nell’ore più vicine e più dubiose d’altro viver quieto; ché l’error consueto, com più m’attempo, ognor più si fa forte. O dura mia più c’altra crudel sorte! tardi orama’ puo’ tormi tanti affanni; c’un cor che arde e arso è già molt’anni torna, se ben l’ammorza la ragione, non più già cor, ma cenere e carbone. (G 93; T 109-40) Spargendo il senso il troppo ardor cocente fuor del tuo bello, in alcun altro volto, men forza ha, signor, molto qual per più rami alpestro e fier torrente. Il cor, che del più ardente foco più vive, mal s’accorda allora co’ rari pianti e men caldi sospiri. L’alma all’error presente gode c’un di lor mora per gire al ciel, là dove par c’aspiri. La ragione i martiri fra lor comparte; e fra più salde tempre s’accordan tutt’a quattro amarti sempre.

(G 94; T 66) D’altrui pietoso e sol di sé spietato



Rime/Poems 101

(G 92; T 109-33) Although time spurs me with a double war To give back to the earth These broken limbs, so weary of their birth, Love is still here, alive, Giving my soul distress, And me, still happiness; And he who has my heart cannot forgive One who is now so close to death, and close, Perhaps, to what is worse. Alas, the older I get, the stronger is in me my evil. O worst of cruelties! It is too late To change both life and fate: A heart that has been burning for so long Is soon, though reason tries to have control, A heart no more, but only ash and coal.

(G 93; T 109-40)78 Should the sense turn its flaming force away From your fair face, my lord, toward one less fair, It would be like a torrent Wasting its white wild current Into weak rivulets. Should the heart turn its perfect love away From you to someone else, it would diminish Its sighs and tears, and finish. Should the soul turn its present happiness Away from you, it would no longer sigh For the sun and the sky. And should reason be not – just what it is, It would not know how to divide and share The sorrows we must bear. The four of them, my lord, agree to this – Only in loving you is happiness. (G 94; T 66)79 Just as a silkworm with much selfless pain,

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nasce un vil bruto, che con pena e doglia l’altrui man veste e la suo scorza spoglia e sol per morte si può dir ben nato. Così volesse al mie signor mie fato vestir suo viva di mie morta spoglia, che, come serpe al sasso si discoglia, pur per morte potria cangiar mie stato. O fussi sol la mie l’irsuta pelle che, del suo pel contesta, fa tal gonna che con ventura stringe sì bel seno, ch’i’ l’are’ pure il giorno; o le pianelle che fanno a quel di lor basa e colonna, ch’i’ pur ne porterei duo nevi almeno. (G 95; T 109-91) Rendete agli occhi mei, o fonte o fiume, l’onde della non vostra e salda vena, che più v’innalza e cresce, e con più lena che non è ’l vostro natural costume. E tu, folt’aïr, che ’l celeste lume tempri a’ trist’occhi, de’ sospir mie piena, rendigli al cor mie lasso e rasserena tua scura faccia al mie visivo acume. Renda la terra i passi alle mie piante, c’ancor l’erba germugli che gli è tolta, e ’l suono eco, già sorda a’ mie lamenti; gli sguardi agli occhi mie tuo luce sante, ch’i’ possa altra bellezza un’altra volta amar, po’ che di me non ti contenti. (G 96; T 72) Sì come secco legno in foco ardente arder poss’io, s’i’ non t’amo di core, e l’alma perder, se null’altro sente. E se d’altra beltà spirto d’amore fuor de’ tu’ occhi è che m’infiammi o scaldi, tolti sien quegli a chi sanz’essi muore.



Rime/Poems 103

To make man happy, leaves its dear cocoon And, dying, gives the hand a silken boon And, dead, through such a gift, is born again; So would that my skin, falling dead and vain, Could be his living flesh! Oh how I soon Would change, as does a snake beneath a stone, My nature and my fate, through such a gain! Would that I were – my hairy skin alone – The skin that makes with its soft hairs a plate (O happy dress!) around his handsome breast All day! Were I two slippers he could own And use as base to his majestic weight! I would enjoy two snowy feet at least. (G 95; T 109-91)80 Fountain and rill, give back my eyes a wave Of tears eternal, not your flowing might, Which, as it goes and grows, is not yet quite Your own, although you sound so roaring-brave. And you, grey air, full of my sighs, oh, save My sighs for me, and give my eyes the light Of her celestial eyes, and be soon bright, So that my glances look at what they crave. Let earth give all their steps back to my feet, And let the dead grass burgeon in the grove, And let deaf Echo answer my lament. Let my eyes keep the splendor, high and sweet, Of yours, and this new beauty I shall love Once more, since you of me are not content. (G 96; T 72)81 As dry wood may I die in burning fire If I do love you less! May hell chastise My soul, if other beauty I desire! Oh, if another beauty but your eyes I even look upon, let their sweet splendor Eclipse (without its life my spirit dies)!

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S’io non t’amo e ador, ch’e’ mie più baldi pensier sien con la speme tanto tristi quanto nel tuo amor son fermi e saldi. (G 97; T 109-94) Al cor di zolfo, a la carne di stoppa, a l’ossa che di secco legno sièno; a l’alma senza guida e senza freno al desir pronto, a la vaghezza troppa; a la cieca ragion debile e zoppa al vischio, a’ lacci di che ’l mondo è pieno; non è gran maraviglia, in un baleno arder nel primo foco che s’intoppa. A la bell’arte che, se dal ciel seco ciascun la porta, vince la natura, quantunche sé ben prema in ogni loco; s’i’ nacqui a quella né sordo né cieco, proporzionato a chi ’l cor m’arde e fura, colpa è di chi m’ha destinato al foco. (R 98; T 76) A che più debb’i’ omai l’intensa voglia sfogar con pianti o con parole meste, se di tal sorte ’l ciel, che l’alma veste, tard’ o per tempo alcun mai non ne spoglia? A che ’l cor lass’ a più languir m’invoglia, s’altri pur dee morir? Dunche per queste luci l’ore del fin fian men moleste; c’ogni altro ben val men c’ogni mia doglia. Però se ’l colpo ch’io ne rub’ e ’nvolo schifar non posso, almen, s’è destinato, chi entrerà ’nfra la dolcezza e ’l duolo? Se vint’ e preso i’ debb’esser beato, maraviglia non è se nudo e solo resto prigion d’un cavalier armato. (G 99; T 103) Ben mi dove’ con sì felice sorte, mentre che Febo il poggio tutto ardea, levar da terra, allor quand’io potea, con le suo penne, e far dolce la morte. Or m’è sparito; e se ’l fuggir men forte



Rime/Poems 105

If I adore and love you less, O render My highest thoughts as much devoid of hope As they are strong now in your love’s surrender! (G 97; T 109-94) A heart of sulphur, flesh of tow or flax, Bones that are only wood both old and dry, A soul with nothing to be guided by, A quick desire, a whim that nothing lacks; Reason that, blind and weary, limps and cracks, A snaring world, so viscous and so sly: No wonder all these things both burn and die When the first flash of fire first attacks. To that beautiful art which is assigned By God, and which can win the world, the whole Nature, if one can suffer and can wait, I, too, was born, oh, neither deaf nor blind; So, if I give to it my heart and soul, It’s not my fault – it is my flaming fate. (G 98; T 76)82 Why should I vent my burning longings out With moaning words and with unhappy sighs, If heaven, despite the pleading of man’s cries, Will always keep him in distress and doubt? Why do I wish to die if all about Must ultimately end? Ah, these my eyes Will suffer less the hour my body dies, When I no longer shall rebel and shout. But since I cannot shun this blow I fear And yet I want; if this is fate, whose charm Will come between my torment and my cheer? If, to be happy, I must soon disarm, No wonder I have fallen, lone and bare, A prisoner of this great Knight-at-arms. (G 99; T 103)83 While I was happy and the world was bright With a new sunshine smiling everywhere, I should have left the earth, that morning air, Spurred by the splendor of her happy sight. Now all is over, and I have no right

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de’ giorni lieti invan mi promettea, ragione è ben c’all’alma ingrata e rea pietà le mani e ’l ciel chiugga le porte. Le penne mi furn’ale e ’l poggio scale, Febo lucerna a’ piè; né m’era allora men salute il morir che maraviglia. Morendo or senza, al ciel l’alma non sale, né di lor la memoria il cor ristora: ché tardi e doppo il danno, chi consiglia? (G 100; T 104) Ben fu, temprando il ciel tuo vivo raggio, solo a du’ occhi, a me di pietà vòto, allor che con veloce etterno moto a noi dette la luce, a te ’l vïaggio. Felice uccello, che con tal vantaggio da noi, t’è Febo e ’l suo bel volto noto, e più c’al gran veder t’è ancora arroto volare al poggio, ond’io rovino e caggio. ………… (G 101; T 77) Perché Febo non torce e non distende d’intorn’ a questo globo freddo e molle le braccia sua lucenti, el vulgo volle notte chiamar quel sol che non comprende. E tant’è debol, che s’alcun accende un picciol torchio, in quella parte tolle la vita dalla notte, e tant’è folle che l’esca col fucil la squarcia e fende. E s’egli è pur che qualche cosa sia cert’è figlia del sol e della terra; ché l’un tien l’ombra, e l’altro sol la cria. Ma sia che vuol, che pur chi la loda erra, vedova, scura, in tanta gelosia, c’una lucciola sol gli può far guerra. (G 102; T 78) O notte, o dolce tempo, benché nero, con pace ogn’ opra sempr’ al fin assalta;



Rime/Poems 107

To hope for happy days I cannot share. No pity any more can save, or spare, My thankless soul; and heaven’s doors are tight. Her eyes were wings, the earth a ladder, lamp The sun before my step. Oh, only then, Death would have been both wonder and repose. Now, rid of all, I lie: it is no ramp At all – the memory that throbs again! Too late! No guidance now, no sun, no rose. (G 100; T 104)84 Preparing for your eyes the brightest ray, Heaven was kind to you, and not, indeed, To us, for, in its swift eternal speed, To us it gave your light, to you the way. O happy bird! While we go soon astray, You reach the Sun, and quiet all your need In his fair face. You safely can proceed From mountain tops that turn us into clay. ………… (G 101; T 77)85 Simply because the sun does not embrace With lucent arms this cold and humid globe, They thought of calling ’night’ his other face, That second sun they fail to know and prove. Oh, but so frail is night, that one quick blaze Of torch can rend her life, and can disrobe her; And so foolish is she, that the swift trace Of a gunshot can make her bleed and throb. If something she must be, she doubtless is The daughter of the sun and of the earth: One gives her life, the other holds her here. Wrong are all those who praise her qualities: She is so dark, lost, lonely, that the birth Of one small firefly can make war on her. (G 102; T 78)86 O night, O time of sweetness, although black, You give at last to all man’s actions peace.

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ben vede e ben intende chi t’esalta, e chi t’onor’ ha l’intelletto intero. Tu mozzi e tronchi ogni stanco pensiero; ché l’umid’ ombra ogni quiet’ appalta, e dall’infima parte alla più alta in sogno spesso porti, ov’ire spero. O ombra del morir, per cui si ferma ogni miseria a l’alma, al cor nemica, ultimo delli afflitti e buon rimedio; tu rendi sana nostra carn’ inferma, rasciughi i pianti e posi ogni fatica, e furi a chi ben vive ogn’ira e tedio. (G 103; T 109-20) Ogni van chiuso, ogni coperto loco, quantunche ogni materia circumscrive, serba la notte, quando il giorno vive, contro al solar suo luminoso gioco. E s’ella è vinta pur da fiamma o foco, da lei dal sol son discacciate e prive con più vil cosa ancor sue specie dive, tal c’ogni verme assai ne rompe o poco. Quel che resta scoperto al sol, che ferve per mille vari semi e mille piante, il fier bifolco con l’aratro assale; ma l’ombra sol a piantar l’uomo serve. Dunche, le notti più ch’e’ dì son sante, quanto l’uom più d’ogni altro frutto vale. (G 104; T 109-21) Colui che fece, e non di cosa alcuna, il tempo, che non era anzi a nessuno, ne fe’ d’un due e diè ’l sol alto all’uno, all’altro assai più presso diè la luna. Onde ’l caso, la sorte e la fortuna in un momento nacquer di ciascuno; e a me consegnaro il tempo bruno, come a simil nel parto e nella cuna. E come quel che contrafà se stesso, quando è ben notte, più buio esser suole,



Rime/Poems 109

Who sings your praises, well he knows and sees, And he who greets you feels no inner lack. You cut and break all weary thoughts, which back To us are sent by the shade and the breeze, And from the lowest pit you lift at ease The mind where splendor suffers no attack. And where I long to go. O shadow of death, Halting all aches that rend both soul and heart, O last and good surcease to man’s dismay, You heal our flesh, restore our failing breath, Dry out our tears, lay all our toils apart, And from the just you steal despair away. (G 103; T 109-20)87 Every closed room and every hidden way – Whatever limits and holds matter in – Still keeps the night in it, although the day With all its light all over seems to win. And if the night is won by flame or ray, Its nature is divine – has always been, Whether the sun still claims it as its prey, Or but a glowworm breaks it, brief and thin. The farmer with his passing plow assails In thousand seeds and plants life’s fervid fight And what the sun with its new sheen unveils. But night alone gives man both seed and root; And shadow is, therefore, better than light – Man being on earth the best and greatest fruit. (G 104; T 109-21)88 When He created time from nothing at all, God cut it in two halves: to the first part He gave the sun, and to the second part The moon, much closer to this earthly ball. From each of them, for the sudden control Of the world, fate and fortune did depart: The night they gave to me and to my art, That very day my body met my soul. Now like the one who blames his destiny, As night grows darker since it has begun,

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ond’io di far ben mal m’affliggo e lagno. Pur mi consola assai l’esser concesso far giorno chiar mia oscura notte al sole che a voi fu dato al nascer per compagno. (G 105; T 79) Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale allor che ne’ bei vostri intera pace trovai, ma dentro, ov’ogni mal dispiace, chi d’amor l’alma a sé simil m’assale; e se creata a Dio non fusse equale, altro che ’l bel di fuor, c’agli occhi piace, più non vorria; ma perch’è sì fallace, trascende nella forma universale. Io dico c’a chi vive quel che muore quetar non può disir; né par s’aspetti l’eterno al tempo, ove altri cangia il pelo. Voglia sfrenata el senso è, non amore, che l’alma uccide; e ’l nostro fa perfetti gli amici qui, ma più per morte in cielo. (G 106; T 109-105) Per ritornar là donde venne fora, l’immortal forma al tuo carcer terreno venne com’angel di pietà sì pieno, che sana ogn’intelletto e ’l mondo onora. Questo sol m’arde e questo m’innamora, non pur di fuora il tuo volto sereno: c’amor non già di cosa che vien meno tien ferma speme, in cui virtù dimora. Né altro avvien di cose altere e nuove in cui si preme la natura, e ’l cielo è c’ a’ lor parti largo s’apparecchia; né Dio, suo grazia, mi si mostra altrove più che ’n alcun leggiadro e mortal velo; e quel sol amo perch’in lui si specchia. (G 107; T 109-99) Gli occhi mie vaghi delle cose belle e l’alma insieme della suo salute



Rime/Poems 111

I, darker with the night, bemoan my fate. And yet, one thought is dear and comforts me To warm my darkest hour within that sun Which on your birth was given you as mate. (G 105; T 79)89 No mortal thing my eyes in yours have found As in their beauty I enjoyed full peace, But, in my soul where evil does displease, Him whose love keeps His own resemblance bound. Were not my soul to share God’s destinies, The outward forms that here my glance astound Would please me, but because they are unsound, To universal beauty my soul flees. I mean, what dies on earth cannot at all Quench the desire of an immortal heart, Nor can man’s changing time make any claim On eternity. Death to the soul and shame Is our wild sense, not love; this makes, in part, Our friendship perfect here: death makes it all. (G 106; T 109-105)90 To rise once more to heaven whence it came, Your soul descended to its earthly days, Just like an angel bright and full of grace, To heal man’s thoughts and give the world its fame. This is, of you, what sets my heart aflame, Not only your sweet, tranquil, outward face: Love wants a virtue that forever stays, And not a swiftly-fleeting thing of shame. And this is true of things both new and bold, For which all nature labors and, above, All fountains of delight soon overbrim. Through mortal beauty, thus, I can behold And know my God; and I am free to love Whatever so superbly mirrors Him. (G 107; T 109-99)91 My eyes, in love with all beautiful things, And my soul, eager for eternal bliss,

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non hanno altra virtute c’ascenda al ciel, che mirar tutte quelle. Dalle più alte stelle discende uno splendore che ’l desir tira a quelle, e qui si chiama amore. Né altro ha il gentil core che l’innamori e arda, e che ’l consigli, c’un volto che negli occhi lor somigli. (G 108; T 109-42) Indarno spera, come ’l vulgo dice, chi fa quel che non de’ grazia o mercede. Non fu’, com’io credetti, in vo’ felice, privandomi di me per troppa fede, né spero com’al sol nuova fenice ritornar più; ché ’l tempo nol concede. Pur godo il mie gran danno sol perch’io son più mie vostro, che s’i’ fussi mio. (G 109; T 109-51-52) Non sempre a tutti è sì pregiato e caro quel che ’l senso contenta, c’un sol non sia che ’l senta, se ben par dolce, pessimo e amaro. Il buon gusto è sì raro c’al vulgo errante cede in vista, allor che dentro di sé gode. Così, perdendo, imparo quel che di fuor non vede chi l’alma ha trista, e ’ suo sospir non ode. El mondo è cieco e di suo gradi o lode più giova a chi più scarso esser ne vuole, come sferza che ’nsegna e parte duole.

(G 110; T 137) Io dico a voi c’al mondo avete dato l’anima e ’l corpo e lo spirto ’nsïeme: in questa cassa oscura è ’l vostro lato. (G 111; T 107) S’egli è, donna, che puoi



Rime/Poems 113

Can both ascend to God Only on beauty’s wings. From all immortal stars Such a sweet splendor springs, That our desire speeds back To those heavenly things – And this, on earth, is love. Nothing but a sweet face Can guide and lift a gentle heart above. (G 108; T 109-42) Man seeks in vain, as people still believe, Reward for what he should not do, or be. The joy I wanted I did not receive When, trusting you, I was no longer free; Nor like a phoenix can I rise and leave The earth again, for time is not with me. But I have learned my lesson now, because I am still I – more than I ever was. (G 109; T 109-51-52) Not always can the pleasure of the senses Please everyone. You meet, That is, some people who regard as sour What others may think sweet. Good taste is now so rare that it must yield To vulgar emptiness; oh, but it does Outwardly only, for, within, it keeps Its alien happiness. So, when I seem to lose, I only learn Much more the things that burn Within my soul, and others do not see. The world is blind: it makes me fly much higher, The very hour it drags me into mire, Just as a whip that teaches while it tires. (G 110; T 137)92 I say to you, who to the world have given Body and soul and heart and everything: In this dark coffin lies the rest of you. (G 111; T 107)93 My lady, though you are

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come cosa mortal, benché sia diva di beltà, c’ancor viva e mangi e dorma e parli qui fra noi, a non seguirti poi, cessato il dubbio, tuo grazia e mercede, qual pena a tal peccato degna fora? Ché alcun ne’ pensier suoi, co’ l’occhio che non vede, per virtù propia tardi s’innamora. Disegna in me di fuora, com’io fo in pietra od in candido foglio, che nulla ha dentro, e èvvi ciò ch’io voglio.

(G 112; T 109-1) Il mio refugio e ’l mio ultimo scampo qual più sicuro è, che non sia men forte che ’l pianger e ’l pregar? e non m’aita. Amore e crudeltà m’han posto il campo: l’un s’arma di pietà, l’altro di morte; questa n’ancide, e l’altra tien in vita. Così l’alma impedita del mio morir, che sol poria giovarne, più volte per andarne s’è mossa là dov’esser sempre spera, dov’è beltà sol fuor di donna altiera; ma l’imagine vera, della qual vivo, allor risorge al core, perché da morte non sia vinto amore. (G 113; T 109-2) Esser non può già ma’ che gli occhi santi prendin de’ mie, com’io di lor, diletto, rendendo al divo aspetto, per dolci risi, amari e tristi pianti. O fallace speranza degli amanti! Com’esser può dissimile e dispari l’infinita beltà, ’l superchio lume da ogni mie costume, che meco ardendo, non ardin del pari? Fra duo volti diversi e sì contrari



Rime/Poems 115

Divine by beauty, like a mortal thing You eat and sleep and talk among us all – How can this ever be? But, should this doubt soon fall Through all your grace and all your courtesy, Would it not be the greatest sin to see Your beauty and, alas, not follow you? For, late, man’s thought – how true! – Can fall in love through that one eye alone Which fails to see, through merit of its own, Divinity made earth. Reveal yourself to me, Just as I do my thoughts on sheet and stone, – Oh, blank, until I give them what I own. (G 112; T 109-1)94 Is there a safer refuge than my tears, Is there a stronger rampart than my prayer? No other help for me, Since love and cruelty have come to share My dwelling – one with pity, one with death; One forcing me to live, one killing me. My soul is, then, not free To go at last where many times my hope Has soared, where beauty shines forever, Detached from all the pride of the possessor. But its true image, giving Life to my heart, will rise again in me, Immortal, to be able, thus, to prove That death of body cannot vanquish love. (G 113; T 109-2)95 It cannot be her sweet and holy eyes May find delight in mine, as mine in hers, For to her balmy smile I only answer with a thousand tears. O futile hope of two in love! But why, So close to my own flame, Though not the same as I, Should she not be, in time, in love with me, As I am with her beauty infinite? I know, between two lovers love is lame:

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s’adira e parte da l’un zoppo Amore; né può far forza che di me gl’incresca, quand’in un gentil core entra di foco, e d’acqua par che n’esca. (G 114; T 109-3) Ben vinci ogni durezza cogli occhi tuo, com’ogni luce ancora; ché, s’alcun d’allegrezza avvien che mora, allor sarebbe l’ora che gran pietà comanda a gran bellezza. E se nel foco avvezza non fusse l’alma, già morto sarei alle promesse de’ tuo primi sguardi, ove non fur ma’ tardi gl’ingordi mie nimici, anz’occhi mei; né doler mi potrei di questo non poter, che non è teco. Bellezza e grazia equalmente infinita, dove più porgi aita, men puoi non tor la vita, né puoi non far chiunche tu miri cieco. (G 115; T 114) Lezi, vezzi, carezze, or, feste e perle, chi potria ma’ vederle cogli atti suo divin l’uman lavoro, ove l’argento e l’oro da le’ riceve o duplica suo luce? Ogni gemma più luce dagli occhi suo che da propia virtute. ………… (G 116; T 109-4) Non mi posso tener né voglio, Amore, crescendo al tuo furore, ch’i’ nol te dica e giuri: quante più inaspri e ’nduri, a più virtù l’alma consigli e sproni; e se talor perdoni a la mie morte, agli angosciosi pianti, com’a colui che muore,



Rime/Poems 117

He quickly goes to her, slowly to me. And yet he cannot be Merciless, for he enters like a dart, And leaves, all wet with tears, a gentle heart. (G 114; T 109-3)96 Your eyes defeat all harshness, Just as they vanquish any other light. They say excessive joy can kill a man; My time would have been, then, When your high beauty looked on my distress. That first and silent promise of your eyes To my silent desire Would long have killed me, were I not accustomed To agonies of fire. Nor am I sorry now you had no power To kill me, that first hour. O boundless beauty! Boundless grace! You give More life, if looked at more, and you are kind, Just as you make all those who see you, blind.

(G 115; T 114)97 Gayety, guiles, caresses, feasts and pearls – My glance yields, my mind whirls. If what she does, no mortal can achieve, Do not her pearls receive From her alone, but multiplied, their splendor? Silver and gold surrender To the light of her eyes; without, they’re nothing. ………… (G 116; T 109-4)98 O Love, despite your growing violence, I cannot help confessing now to you: The more you make offence, The more you help and spur my soul to God; And if, at times, you seem To halt my death and wipe my weeping eyes, I feel like one who dies, Without my sweet old pain.

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dentro mi sento il core mancar, mancando i mie tormenti tanti. Occhi lucenti e santi, mie poca grazia m’è ben dolce e cara, c’assai acquista chi perdendo impara. (G 117; T 109-5) S’egli è che ’l buon desio porti dal mondo a Dio alcuna cosa bella, sol la mie donna è quella, a chi ha gli occhi fatti com’ho io. Ogni altra cosa oblio e sol di tant’ho cura. Non è gran maraviglia, s’io l’amo e bramo e chiamo a tutte l’ore; né propio valor mio, se l’alma per natura s’appoggia a chi somiglia ne gli occhi gli occhi, ond’ella scende fore. Se sente il primo amore come suo fin, per quel qua questa onora: c’amar diè ’l servo chi ’l signore adora. (G 118; T 109-6-41) Ancor che ’l cor già molte volte sia d’amore acceso e da troppi anni spento, l’ultimo mie tormento sarie mortal senza la morte mia. Onde l’alma desia de’ giorni mie, mentre c’amor m’avvampa, l’ultimo, primo in più tranquilla corte. Altro refugio o via mie vita non iscampa dal suo morir, c’un’aspra e crudel morte; né contr’a morte è forte altro che morte, sì c’ogn’altra aita è doppia morte a chi per morte ha vita. (G 119; T 109-9) Dal primo pianto all’ultimo sospiro, al qual son già vicino,



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O bright, merciful eyes, The little grace I know, to me is dear – For one learns much from losses and from fear.

(G 117; T 109-5)99 If it is true a beauteous thing can bring A man from earth to God, Only my lady can be that, only to those Whose eyes, like mine, are weary of this earth. She sates my every thirst And makes me soon forget what is not pure. That’s why, you can be sure, I love her, call her, want her, every hour. It is not I – my soul Does naturally cling To one whose eyes remind me of my goal. Oh, yes, my soul remembers its first love, And loves and honors its own great reward: Loving the servant, one adores the lord.

(G 118; T 109-6-41) Too many years have spent My heart, too many times ablaze with love, And I am certain now that my last prove Would be, without death’s rescue, my sad end. Therefore, my soul desires my last day, While I am still afire, as its first In the heavenly court where peace is high. Only a quick, harsh death Can save my life from dying. Death alone Can meet and vanquish death: all else – be sure – Is double death to one whom death can cure.

(G 119; T 109-9)100 From the first tears to the last desperate sigh – And I am not too far –

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chi contrasse già mai sì fier destino com’io da sì lucente e fera stella? Non dico iniqua o fella, che ’l me’ saria di fore, s’aver disdegno ne troncasse amore; ma più, se più la miro, promette al mio martiro dolce pietà, con dispietato core. O desiato ardore! ogni uom vil sol potria vincer con teco, ond’io, s’io non fui cieco, ne ringrazio le prime e l’ultime ore ch’io la vidi; e l’errore vincami; e d’ogni tempo sia con meco, se sol forza e virtù perde con seco. (G 120; T 109-11) Ben tempo saria omai ritrarsi dal martire, ché l’età col desir non ben s’accorda; ma l’alma, cieca e sorda, Amor, come tu sai, del tempo e del morire che, contro a morte ancor, me la ricorda; e se l’arco e la corda avvien che tronchi o spezzi in mille e mille pezzi, prega te sol non manchi un de’ suoi guai: ché mai non muor chi non guarisce mai. (G 121; T 109-12) Come non puoi non esser cosa bella, esser non puoi che pietosa non sia; sendo po’ tutta mia, non puo’ poter non mi distrugga e stempre. Così durando sempre mie pietà pari a tua beltà qui molto, la fin del tuo bel volto in un tempo con ella fie del mie ardente core. Ma poi che ’l spirto sciolto ritorna alla suo stella,



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Is there a man whose destiny is such As I have drawn from this bright, cruel star? I cannot say ’iniquitous’ or ’evil,’ For, should she ever be Outside what she’s within, Disdain would kill my love. Alas, the more I look at her, the more she seems to show Pity on all my woe; But still her heart, I know, Is mercilessly cold. O strong desire! Baseness can easily win; But I, who was not blind, now thank and bless The first and the last time of my distress. And may my error tell me, over and over, That only strength and virtue fail a lover. (G 120; T 109-11)101 Now it is time you ended Your love and its dismay: Desire and age are not easily blended. But my soul, blind and deaf – O Love, you know it well – To death and time, reminds me more and more Of one my very death cannot ignore. Well, then, if you should break Both bow and arrow in a thousand pieces, Oh, give her, for my sake, As many sorrows and as many cries: For one who pines forever, never dies. (G 121; T 109-12)102 As you must always be so beautiful, So you must always be as gentle, too; And, since you are all mine, It cannot ever be I less may pine. So, if my faith remains Equal forever to your gentleness, Your beauty’s end shall be The end of love and me. But when your spirit will become a star, Enjoying God, Who gives eternity Of paradise or hell to man’s dead flesh,

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a fruir quel signore ch’e’ corpi a chiunche muore eterni rende o per quiete o per lutto; priego ’l mie, benché brutto, com’è qui teco, il voglia in paradiso: c’un cor pietoso val quant’un bel viso. (G 122; T 109-13) Se ’l foco al tutto nuoce, e me arde e non cuoce, non è mia molta né sua men virtute, ch’io sol trovi salute qual salamandra, là dove altri muore. Né so chi in pace a tal martir m’ha volto: da te medesma il volto, da me medesmo il core fatto non fu, né sciolto da noi fia mai il mio amore; più alto è quel signore che ne’ tu’ occhi la mia vita ha posta. S’io t’amo, e non ti costa, perdona a me, come io a tanta noia, che fuor di chi m’uccide vuol ch’i’ muoia.

(G 123; T 109-14) Quante più par che ’l mie mal maggior senta, se col viso vel mostro, più par s’aggiunga al vostro bellezza, tal che ’l duol dolce diventa. Ben fa chi mi tormenta, se parte vi fa bella della mie pena ria: se ’l mie mal vi contenta, mie cruda e fera stella, che farie dunche con la morte mia? Ma s’è pur ver che sia vostra beltà dall’aspro mie martire, e quel manchi al morire, morend’io, morrà vostra leggiadria. Però fate ch’i’ stia col mie duol vivo, per men vostro danno;



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I pray that you may take, as you did here, My body, although ugly, to your place: A gentle heart is worth a beautiful face.

(G 122; T 109-13)103 If fire harms all things, And me does not yet kill, It cannot be its power has decreased, Or that much stronger has become my will. I am the salamander that lives still Where others die, but have not known as yet How have I come into this happy flame. Oh, tell me how you got Your face, and I will tell you how my heart Was made to love but you. Let God in heaven answer: He knew best When He placed all my life within your eyes. If all my loving sighs Still please you, oh, forgive me for my love, As I forgive you for taking my breath And keeping me, each time, away from death. (G 123; T 109-14)104 The more you see my torment on my face, The more I feel my sorrow Can make your beauty grow, and, in that case, My pain is sweet to me. Love could not do a better thing, indeed, If your beauty can feed On my unhappiness. But if, O cruel star, my tears can please you, I think my death will do much more than this. Alas, if all your beauty now depends On my distress, when this shall be no more, Your beauty, too, shall end. For your own sake, oh, make me weep forever, And all my peace will be In seeing you more beautiful – for me: Great happiness can bear great misery.

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e se più bella al mie mal maggior siete, l’alma n’ha ben più quiete: c’un gran piacer sopporta un grande affanno. (G 124; T 109-15) Questa mie donna è sì pronta e ardita, c’allor che la m’ancide ogni mie bene cogli occhi mi promette, e parte tiene il crudel ferro dentro a la ferita. E così morte e vita, contrarie, insieme in un picciol momento dentro a l’anima sento; ma la grazia il tormento da me discaccia per più lunga pruova: c’assai più nuoce il mal che ’l ben non giova. (G 125; T 109-22) Tanto di sé promette donna pietosa e bella, c’ancor mirando quella sarie qual fu’ per tempo, or vecchio e tardi. Ma perc’ognor si mette morte invidiosa e fella fra ’ mie dolenti e ’ suo pietosi sguardi, solo convien ch’i’ ardi quel picciol tempo che ’l suo volto oblio. Ma poi che ’l pensier rio pur la ritorna al consueto loco, dal suo fier ghiaccio è spento il dolce foco. (G 126; T 109-24) Se l’alma è ver, dal suo corpo disciolta, che ’n alcun altro torni a’ corti e brevi giorni, per vivere e morire un’altra volta, la donna mie, di molta bellezza agli occhi miei, fie allor com’or nel suo tornar sì cruda? Se mie ragion s’ascolta, attender la dovrei di grazia piena e di durezza nuda. Credo, s’avvien che chiuda



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(G 124; T 109-15)105 This lady of mine is so ready and bold, That, as she kills me, with her gentle eyes She promises to me all paradise, But keeps her dagger, merciless and cold, Still in my wound: therefore, At the same time, I feel, alas, in me, Both life and agony. But oh, those eyes can do much more Than all my misery and all my fright: A future bliss makes present sorrows light. (G 125; T 109-22) This lady, dear and kind, So much does promise me, That, looking at her, I can say in truth I once again can be What I was in my youth. But as cold death appears, And stands between her eyes and my lament, I can be happy only when I can Forget its cruel face and all my fears. But when can I? Alas, that future ice Can freeze the present flame of these sweet eyes.

(G 126; T 109-24) If it is true that, freed from flesh, the soul, For a short while, must live and die again In a new body; then, Will this my lady be As cruel as she is, this hour, to me? If heaven ever listen to my plea, She must return, I know, sublimely kind. For if she, dying, feels what dying is, She will, as she is granted a new breath, Indeed be sorry for my present death.

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gli occhi suo begli, arà, come rinnuova, pietà del mie morir, se morte pruova. (G 127; T 109-25) Non pur la morte, ma ’l timor di quella da donna iniqua e bella, c’ognor m’ancide, mi difende e scampa; e se talor m’avvampa più che l’usato il foco in ch’io son corso, non trovo altro soccorso che l’immagin sua ferma in mezzo il core: ché dove è morte non s’appressa Amore. (G 128; T 109-26) Se ’l timor della morte chi ’l fugge e scaccia sempre lasciar là lo potessi onde ei si muove, Amor crudele e forte con più tenaci tempre d’un cor gentil faria spietate pruove. Ma perché l’alma altrove per morte e grazia al fin gioire spera, chi non può non morir gli è ’l timor caro al qual ogni altro cede. Né contro all’alte e nuove bellezze in donna altera ha forza altro riparo che schivi suo disdegno o suo mercede. Io giuro a chi nol crede, che da costei, che del mio pianger ride, sol mi difende e scampa chi m’uccide. (G 129; T 109-27) Da maggior luce e da più chiara stella la notte il ciel le sue da lunge accende: te sol presso a te rende ognor più bella ogni cosa men bella Qual cor più questa o quella a pietà muove o sprona, c’ognor chi arde almen non s’agghiacc’egli? Chi, senza aver, ti dona vaga e gentil persona



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(G 127; T 109-25) Not only death, the very fright of it Defends me from the flame Of one who kills with no remorse or shame; And if, at times, the fire, In which, alas, I fell, Threatens once more to rouse my old desire, My only help is death, graved in my heart: For death and love are foes, and stay apart. (G 128; T 109-26) If frightening death forever Could be forgotten and dismissed by man, I know that, more than ever, Love would increase the power of his dart, And slay a gentle heart. But since the soul still hopes to find elsewhere, Through grace of death, the end of its despair, He who must die, must rate His fear of death as the most precious fear. There is no better shelter Against the harmful pride Of beauty that disdains man’s hopeful prayer. Ah, do you not believe me? But I swear That only death, who kills, can save me now From one who scorns my tears with her sweet brow.

(G 129; T 109-27) From greater light and from a greater star The night can brighten its face from afar: But you alone become More beautiful from things that are not so. Is there another thing, besides my heart, That burns to keep your own Away from danger of becoming ice? Things are not beautiful, yet give your eyes, Your face, your blond bright hair,

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e ’l volto e gli occhi e ’ biondi e be’ capegli. Dunche, contr’a te quegli ben fuggi e me con essi, se ’l bello infra ’ non begli beltà cresce a se stessi. Donna, ma s’ tu rendessi quel che t’ha dato il ciel, c’a noi l’ha tolto, sarie più ’l nostro, e men bello il tuo volto. (G 130; T 109-28) Non è senza periglio il tuo volto divino dell’alma a chi è vicino com’io a morte, che la sento ognora; ond’io m’armo e consiglio per far da quel difesa anzi ch’i’ mora. Ma tuo mercede, ancora che ’l mie fin sie da presso, non mi rende a me stesso; né danno alcun da tal pietà mi scioglie: ché l’uso di molt’anni un dì non toglie. (G 131; T 109-29) Sotto duo belle ciglia le forze Amor ripiglia nella stagion che sprezza l’arco e l’ale. Gli occhi mie, ghiotti d’ogni maraviglia c’a questa s’assomiglia, di lor fan pruova a più d’un fero strale. E parte pur m’assale, appresso al dolce, un pensier aspro e forte di vergogna e di morte; né perde Amor per maggior tema o danni: c’un’or non vince l’uso di molt’anni. (G 132; T 109-32) Mentre che ’l mie passato m’è presente, sì come ognor mi viene, o mondo falso, allor conosco bene l’errore e ’l danno dell’umana gente: quel cor, c’alfin consente a’ tuo lusinghi e a’ tuo van diletti,



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And all of you, more beauty; but oh, shunning My love, you shun all things That make you what you are. My lady, should you give us back our share Of beauty God gave you, our face would be More beautiful, indeed, and yours less fair.

(G 130; T 109-28)106 Danger of loss eternal Comes from your youthful breath To one who is, like me, so close to death; Therefore, I arm, intending To save myself from it, before I die. But oh, your love can tie So sweetly, that, despite My death, I am not free; And loss eternal does not scare at all: One moment cannot make two decades fall.

(G 131; T 109-29)107 Beneath two beautiful eyes Love takes new vigor soon, and new advice, Despite the years that break both wing and bow. My eyes, still greedy for all beauty’s glow, – And beauty now is here – Resist more than one dart. But ah, together with a thought of joy, A thought of shame and death now wrings my heart, And yet love fights all feats, undaunted still: One moment cannot break two decades’ will.

(G 132; T 109-32) When all my past returns to grieve my mind, – And every hour it does – Deceitful world, I know how love is wrong On earth, and recognize how wrong was I. The heart that, ah, swears by Your flatteries and lures,

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procaccia all’alma dolorosi guai. Ben lo sa chi lo sente, come spesso prometti altrui la pace e ’l ben che tu non hai né debbi aver già mai. Dunche ha men grazia chi più qua soggiorna: ché chi men vive più lieve al ciel torna. (G 133; T 109-34) Condotto da molt’anni all’ultim’ore, tardi conosco, o mondo, i tuo diletti: la pace che non hai altrui prometti e quel riposo c’anzi al nascer muore. La vergogna e ’l timore degli anni, c’or prescrive il ciel, non mi rinnuova che ’l vecchio e dolce errore, nel qual chi troppo vive l’anima ’ncide e nulla al corpo giova. Il dico e so per pruova di me, che ’n ciel quel sol ha miglior sorte ch’ebbe al suo parto più presso la morte. (G 134; T 198-35) – Beati voi che su nel ciel godete le lacrime che ’l mondo non ristora, favvi amor forza ancora, o pur per morte liberi ne siete? – La nostra etterna quiete, fuor d’ogni tempo, è priva d’invidia, amando, e d’angosciosi pianti. – Dunche a mal pro’ ch’i’ viva convien, come vedete, per amare e servire in dolor tanti. Se ’l cielo è degli amanti amico, e ’l mondo ingrato, amando, a che son nato? A viver molto? E questo mi spaventa: ché ’l poco è troppo a chi ben serve e stenta. (G 135; T 109-36) Mentre c’al tempo la mie vita fugge,



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Gives to the soul a thousand moans and woes. How well I know that you Promise that peace which you yourself have not, And which you never knew. Therefore, long life is long unhappiness: He sooner goes to God, who dwells here less.

(G 133; T 109-34) Led by so many years to my last hours, Too late, O world, I recognize your lures: You promise us that peace which is not yours, And that sweet rest which dies before it lives. Now shame and fear of age, that heaven gives, Can but renew in me My old sweet misery, Which kills the soul of one who lives so long, And brings no solace to the body’s thirst. Believe me – I should know: Only the one is happy on this earth, Whom death receives the very day of birth.

(G 134; T 198-35)108 “O blesséd souls above all misery, Far from the tears the world could not wipe out, Does love still give you doubt, Or, thanks to death, are you forever free?” “Our deathless heavenly glee, Being beyond all time, can no more know Envy, in love; we love, but without tears.” “Then, it is useless to love down here, Where to love is to serve in endless woe. If lovers find a friend in heaven, not In this world full of scorn, Why was I born to love? Why was I born At all? To live so long? And this I fear: For even a short life is more than long To one who loves and is repaid with wrong.” (G 135; T 109-36)109 Knowing my life is running fast away,

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amor più mi distrugge, né mi perdona un’ora, com’i’ credetti già dopo molt’anni. L’alma, che trema e rugge, com’uom c’a torto mora, di me si duol, de’ sua etterni danni. Fra ’l timore e gl’inganni d’amore e morte, allor tal dubbio sento, ch’i’ cerco in un momento del me’ di loro e di poi il peggio piglio; sì dal mal uso è vinto il buon consiglio. (G 136; T 109-38) L’alma, che sparge e versa di fuor l’acque di drento, il fa sol perché spento non sie da loro il foco in ch’è conversa. Ogni altra aita persa saria, se ’l pianger sempre mi resurge al tuo foco, vecchio e tardi. Mie dura sorte e mie fortuna avversa non ha sì dure tempre, che non m’affligghin men, dove più m’ardi; tal ch’e’ tuo accesi sguardi, di fuor piangendo, dentro circumscrivo, e di quel c’altri muor sol godo e vivo. (G 137; T 109-39) Se per gioir pur brami affanni e pianti, più crudo, Amor, m’è più caro ogni strale, che fra la morte e ’l male non dona tempo alcun, né brieve spazio: tal c’a ’ncider gli amanti i pianti perdi, e ’l nostro è meno strazio. Ond’io sol ti ringrazio della mie morte e non delle mie doglie, c’ogni mal sana chi la vita toglie. (G 138; T 109-54) Porgo umilmente all’aspro giogo il collo il volto lieto a la fortuna ria, e alla donna mia



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Love multiplies his play, And does not give me respite, As I had hoped, after so many years. My soul, trembling and roaring As one unjustly dying, Bemoans with me and fears Eternal death so near. Thus, between fright of end and lure of love, I suddenly can see the best of me Yet to the worst I cling: Habit of evil wins good counseling. (G 136; T 109-38)110 The soul outpours its inner, cooling tears So that the fire within Be not extinguished by them. No other help I see, as I begin, Though old, to burn anew, As I once did, for you. My cruel destiny with all its fears Could not afflict me less If you should love me more. Thus, shedding all my tears, I bear within my heart The hidden conflagration of your eyes, And boast and live of what makes others die. (G 137; T 109-39) If, for a bit of joy, O cruel Love, You want eternal tears, Then use your swiftest dart and pierce me through, And let no time between your wound and death. Quick, kill all lovers. Love: We shall no more be dying; you shall lose The daily tribute of our panting breath. For death I thank you, not for my dismay: He cures all ills, who takes a life away. (G 138; T 109-54) Humbly and meekly to love’s yoke I yield, And I surrender my serenity, And my still burning and devoted heart

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nemica il cor di fede e foco pieno; né dal martir mi crollo, anz’ogni or temo non venga meno. Ché se ’l volto sereno cibo e vita mi fa d’un gran martire, qual crudel doglia mi può far morire? (G 139; T 109-55) In più leggiadra e men pietosa spoglia altr’anima non tiene che la tuo, donna, il moto e ’l dolce anelo; tal c’alla ingrata voglia al don di tuo beltà perpetue pene più si convien c’al mie soffrire ’l cielo. I’ nol dico e nol celo s’i’ bramo o no come ’l tuo ’l mie peccato, ché, se non vivo, morto ove te sia, o, te pietosa, che dove beato mi fa ’l martir, si’ etterna pace mia. Se dolce mi saria l’inferno teco, in ciel dunche che fora? Beato a doppio allora sare’ a godere i’ sol nel divin coro quel Dio che ’n cielo e quel che ’n terra adoro.

(G 140; T 109-96) Se l’alma al fin ritorna nella suo dolce e desïata spoglia, o danni o salvi il ciel, come si crede, ne l’inferno men doglia, se tuo beltà l’adorna, fie, parte c’altri ti contempla e vede. S’al cielo ascende e riede, com’io seco desio e con tal cura e con sì caldo affetto, fie men fruire Dio, s’ogni altro piacer cede come di qua, al tuo divo e dolce aspetto. Che me’ d’amarti aspetto, se più giova men doglia a chi è dannato,



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To a woman who is my enemy; Nor do I ask to ease my agony, For, ah, I dread the moment it may cease. If her sweet eyes can turn my pain to bliss, How can I die of different distress?

(G 139; T 109-55) There never was a soul that breathed and moved In a more fair or less merciful spoil Than yours, my lady. So, For all your cruelty you do deserve Eternal pain, much more than, for my woe, I do eternal bliss. And let me tell you this: I want my pain to be as much a sin As your relentless cruelty has been, So that, when dead, we may together be. But, should you change toward me, Heaven would soon reward my countless cries And the sweet mercy of your lucent eyes. If hell with you would be my paradise, Oh, what would heaven be? Blessed I would be twice – Adoring at one time my God in heaven And you, my god on earth. (G 140; T 109-96)111 When your soul will resume Its dear, desired body, Either for happiness or timeless doom According to our faith, Hell will become less painful with the breath And the wreath of your beauty, and all souls Will soon forget their woes, looking at you. But if your body goes To heaven, where I like to follow, too, Because of all my warm and long desire I would enjoy God less, if it is true That, even there, as here, All other happiness Soon yields to your divine, beloved face.

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che ’n ciel non nuoce l’esser men beato.

(G 141; T 109-56) Perc’all’alta mie speme è breve e corta, donna, tuo fé, se con san occhio il veggio, goderò per non peggio quante di fuor con gli occhi ne prometti; ché dove è pietà morta, non è che gran bellezza non diletti. E se contrari effetti agli occhi di mercé dentro a te sento, la certezza non tento, ma prego, ove ’l gioire è men che ’ntero sie dolce il dubbio a chi nuocer può ’l vero. (G 142; T 109-57) Credo, perc’ancor forse non sia la fiamma spenta nel freddo tempo dell’età men verde, l’arco subito torse Amor, che si rammenta che ’n gentil cor ma’ suo colpo non perde; e la stagion rinverde per un bel volto; e peggio è al sezzo strale mie ricaduta che ’l mio primo male.

(G 143; T 109-58) Quant’ognor fugge il giorno che mi resta del viver corto e poco tanto più serra il foco in picciol tempo a mie più danno e strazio: c’aita il ciel non presta contr’al vecchio uso in così breve spazio. Pur poi che non se’ sazio del foco circumscritto, in cui pietra non serva suo natura non c’un cor, ti ringrazio, Amor, se ’l manco invitto in chiuso foco alcun tempo non dura.



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Then I shall love you better still, I guess, If to the damned less sorrow is worth more Than to the blest a bit of gladness less. (G 141; T 109-56) Although my greatest hope cannot achieve Your mercy, as I well can see and feel, My lady, I shall take what I believe You seem to promise only with your eyes; For, even if pity dies, Great beauty still can please. And, though I dread it is the opposite Of what your eyes bespeak, The truth I do not seek, For, even incomplete, my joy lives still: Let doubt be sweet to one whom truth may kill. (G 142; T 109-57)112 Perhaps to keep the flame Alive and far from death In the cold season of man’s least green age, Love wounded me again, Remembering that in no gentle heart His darts can fall in vain. Look, my season is green For two beautiful eyes that I have seen; But this last fall, alas, Is far, far worse than the first ever was. (G 143; T 109-58)113 The last day of my life is speeding fast To its expected end, And yet these flames still rend My heart, as if aware of their last chance. No help can heaven grant Against old habits in so short a time. Oh Love, since you are not yet satisfied, And seem to circumscribe all of your fire In this small place alone, Where not only my heart but even a stone Would soon be liquefied; O Love, I thank you, for my heart, less hard,

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Mie peggio è mie ventura, perché la vita all’arme che tu porti cara non m’è, s’almen perdoni a’ morti.

(G 144; T 109-59) Passo inanzi a me stesso con alto e buon concetto, e ’l tempo gli prometto c’aver non deggio. O pensier vano e stolto! Ché con la morte appresso perdo ’l presente, e l’avvenir m’è tolto; e d’un leggiadro volto ardo e spero sanar, che morto viva negli anni ove la vita non arriva. (G 145; T 109-60) Se costei gode e tu solo, Amor, vivi de’ nostri pianti, e s’io, come te, soglio di lacrime e cordoglio e d’un ghiaccio nutrir la vita mia; dunche, di vita privi saremo da mercé di donna pia. Meglio il peggio saria: contrari cibi han sì contrari effetti c’a lei il godere, a noi torrien la vita; tal che ’nsieme prometti più morte, là dove più porgi aita. A l’alma sbigottita viver molto più val con dura sorte che grazia c’abbi a sé presso la morte. (G 146; T 109-63) Gli sguardi che tu strazi a me tutti gli togli; né furto è già quel che del tuo non doni; ma se ’l vulgo ne sazi e ’ bruti, e me ne spogli, omicidio è, c’a morte ognor mi sproni. Amor, perché perdoni tuo somma cortesia sie di beltà qui tolta



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Cannot last long in this. My worst is, oh, my bliss, For, since your weapons. Love, I fiercely dread, I want but death – if you forgive the dead. (G 144; T 109-59) I look ahead with faith And with undaunted trust, And still promise myself The time that I have lost. O vain and foolish thought! With death so near, I lose my present, and my future flies; And I hope to forget the beautiful face, For which I long, so that I may still live Beyond the years where life cannot arrive. (G 145; T 109-60) If she is happy, and you, Love, can live On all our tears; and if, like yours, my life Is nourished by despair And ice; should she be kind as she is fair, We would no longer live. The worst would, then, be best: Different food has different effect, – For we would lose our life, and she, her joy. The more you help, the more you threaten death. Therefore, in all my sorrow I prefer To cling to my despair, Than taste her grace at last and die of it.

(G 146; T 109-63)114 The glances you give others You steal away from me; Yet I cannot call theft what is your own. But when you sate the brutes of every street, And make me die of hunger, you commit A murder, for you force me not to live. O Love, but why permit That your supreme benevolence should go To brutes, and not to those

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a chi gusta e desia, e data a gente stolta? Deh, falla un’altra volta pietosa dentro e sì brutta di fuori, c’a me dispiaccia, e di me s’innamori. (G 147; T 109-64) – Deh dimmi, Amor, se l’alma di costei fusse pietosa com’ha bell’ il volto, s’alcun saria sì stolto ch’a sé non si togliessi e dessi a lei? E io, che più potrei servirla, amarla, se mi fuss’amica, che, sendomi nemica, l’amo più c’allor far non doverrei? (G 147; T 109-64bis) – Io dico che fra voi, potenti dei, convien c’ogni riverso si sopporti. Poi che sarete morti, di mille ’ngiurie e torti, amando te com’or di lei tu ardi, far ne potrai giustamente vendetta. Ahimè, lasso chi pur tropp’aspetta ch’i’ gionga a’ suoi conforti tanto tardi! Ancor, se ben riguardi, un generoso, alter e nobil core perdon’ e porta a chi l’offend’ amore. (G 148; T 109-84) Con più certa salute men grazia, donna, mi terrie ancor vivo; dall’uno e l’altro rivo degli occhi il petto sarie manco molle. Doppia mercé mie picciola virtute di tanto vince che l’adombra e tolle; né saggio alcun ma’ volle, se non sé innalza e sprona, di quel gioir ch’esser non può capace. Il troppo è vano e folle; ché modesta persona d’umil fortuna ha più tranquilla pace.



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Who would appreciate it? Oh, once more, Command her to be kind and sweet, within, And make her, then, without, so sadly ugly, That she at last may love me, And I at last may spite her, more than sin. (G 147; T 109-64)115 Answer me, Love: had she a heart as kind Just as her face is sweet and beautiful, Would one be not a fool Who did not speed to her, or stayed behind? And, if she were my friend, Tell me, could I both serve and love her more, Who love her as she is – my enemy, More than I should if she were kind to me? (G 147; T 109-64bis)116 Powerful gods, I say that here, on earth, We must put up with all the fiercest blows. You must, by now, be weary Of thousand injuries and thousand woes; So, loving you, as much as you love her, I ask for your revenge. Alas, I fear my help will come too late! Yet, as you know, a great And noble heart forgives, And pays with love the hatred it receives.

(G 148; T 109-84)117 My life would be much safer, O lady, if I had but half your grace; Less tears would flow from my less anguished eyes Down to my heart. Your double gentleness Wins my small virtue twice, Annulling it forever. Who is wise, He does not hope for joy he cannot hold, Unless by his own virtue he can rise. To want too much is but a foolish dream, For modest men find soon their tranquil peace In modest happiness. The much that you can give

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Quel c’a vo’ lice, a me, donna, dispiace: chi si dà altrui, c’altrui non si prometta, d’un superchio piacer morte n’aspetta. (G 149; T 109-85) Non posso non mancar d’ingegno e d’arte a chi mi to’ la vita con tal superchia aita, che d’assai men mercé più se ne prende. D’allor l’alma mie parte com’occhio offeso da chi troppo splende, e sopra me trascende a l’impossibil mie; per farmi pari al minor don di donna alta e serena, seco non m’alza; e qui convien ch’impari che quel ch’i’ posso ingrato a lei mi mena. Questa, di grazie piena, n’abonda e ’nfiamma altrui d’un certo foco, che ’l troppo con men caldo arde che ’l poco.

(G 150; T 109-100) Non men gran grazia, donna, che gran doglia ancide alcun, che ’l furto a morte mena, privo di speme e ghiacciato ogni vena, se vien subito scampo che ’l discioglia. Simil se tuo mercé, più che ma’ soglia, nella miseria mie d’affanni piena, con superchia pietà mi rasserena, par, più che ’l pianger, la vita mi toglia. Così n’avvien di novell’aspra o dolce: ne’ lor contrari è morte in un momento, onde s’allarga o troppo stringe ’l core. Tal tuo beltà, c’Amore e ’l ciel qui folce, se mi vuol vivo affreni il gran contento, c’al don superchio debil virtù muore. (G 151; T 83) Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto c’un marmo solo in sé non circonscriva col suo superchio, e solo a quello arriva la man che ubbidisce all’intelletto.



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Can hurt me now, my lady: for, were I To bear unpromised joy, I soon would die.

(G 149; T 109-85) I cannot be but failing In intellect and art, If she takes all my life with so much grace, When but a little would most please my heart. This makes my soul depart, As human glance soon hurt by too much splendor, And soar to my impossible bright goal Where such a lady’s greatest gift of joy Becomes the least. She does not lift me with her, So that we still be even. Thus, I learn, My very smallness, and ingratitude, Achieves far more than all my worth could earn. So full of grace is she, That every heart, soon kindled, can but burn A little, – just to its capacity. (G 150; T 109-100)118 Great happiness, my lady, as great pain Can kill as easily. A thief who goes, Trembling and frozen, to the waiting noose, Can die of joy, if told he’s free again. Thus, should I unexpectedly obtain, In my existence full of bitter woes, More grace than now my soul expects and knows, Not by my tears, by that I would be slain. Of good or bad news it is all the same – Although so different, still death they give, Opening or narrowing the heart too much. Your beauty, fed by heaven whence it came, Must be less bright, if you want me to live: Weak virtue dies at fortune’s lavish touch. (G 151; T 83)119 The greatest artist has no single concept Which a rough marble block does not contain Already in its core: that can attain Only the hand that serves the intellect.

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Il mal ch’io fuggo, e ’l ben ch’io mi prometto, in te, donna leggiadra, altera e diva, tal si nasconde; e perch’io più non viva, contraria ho l’arte al disïato effetto. Amor dunque non ha, né tua beltate o durezza o fortuna o gran disdegno, del mio mal colpa, o mio destino o sorte; se dentro del tuo cor morte e pietate porti in un tempo, e che ’l mio basso ingegno non sappia, ardendo, trarne altro che morte. (G 152; T 84) Sì come per levar, donna, si pone in pietra alpestra e dura una viva figura, che là più cresce u’ più la pietra scema; tal alcun’opre buone, per l’alma che pur trema, cela il superchio della propria carne co’ l’inculta sua cruda e dura scorza. Tu pur dalle mie streme parti puo’ sol levarne, ch’in me non è di me voler né forza. (G 153; T 109-61) Non pur d’argento o d’oro vinto dal foco esser po’ piena aspetta, vota d’opra prefetta, la forma, che sol fratta il tragge fora; tal io, col foco ancora d’amor dentro ristoro il desir voto di beltà infinita, di coste’ ch’i’ adoro, anima e cor della mie fragil vita. Alta donna e gradita in me discende per sì brevi spazi, c’a trarla fuor convien mi rompa e strazi. (G 154; T 109-62) Tanto sopra me stesso mi fai, donna, salire,



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The evil I shun, and the good I expect Are thus, sweet Lady both divine and vain, Hidden in you; but, to my utmost pain, My art opposes its desired effect. So Love is not to blame for all my woes, Nor is your beauty, nor indeed my lot, If in your heart at the one time you bear Pity and death: it is simply because My low intelligence, though burning-hot, Can only draw from you death and despair. (G 152; T 84)120 My Lady, just as one already sees, Concealed in the hard marble of the North, The living figure one has to bring forth (The less of stone remains, the more that grows); So does the involucre of our flesh Hide from the trembling soul, With its burden of skin, unworked, rough, hard, Deeds of both light and worth. These, you alone, my Lady, can bring forth From the stone that I am, and may be still, As there’s in me no more strength left nor will. (G 153; T 109-61)121 Just as an empty form Awaits its gold or silver liquefied, And, broken, then, reveals The perfect work; thus I can only fill With inner fire of love my void and need Of the immortal beauty of my lady, Both mind and heart of these my fragile days. Through such a narrow space Her gentleness and love pour into me, That, to draw forth her perfect image, I Must agonize and die.

(G 154; T 109-62)122 You make me soar so high, Lady, above myself,

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che non ch’i’ ’l possa dire, nol so pensar, perch’io non son più desso. Dunche, perché più spesso, se l’alie tuo mi presti, non m’alzo e volo al tuo leggiadro viso, e che con teco resti, se dal ciel n’è concesso ascender col mortale in paradiso? Se non ch’i’ sia diviso dall’alma per tuo grazia, e che quest’una fugga teco suo morte, è mie fortuna. (G 155; T 109-44) Le grazie tua e la fortuna mia hanno, donna, sì vari gli effetti, perch’i’ ’mpari in fra ’l dolce e l’amar qual mezzo sia. Mentre benigna e pia dentro, e di fuor ti mostri quante se’ bella al mie ’rdente desire, la fortun’ aspra e ria, nemica a’ piacer nostri, con mille oltraggi offende ’l mie gioire; se per avverso po’ di tal martire, si piega alle mie voglie, tuo pietà mi si toglie. Fra ’l riso e ’l pianto, en sì contrari stremi, mezzo non è c’una gran doglia scemi. (G 156; T 109-76) A l’alta tuo lucente dïadema per la strada erta e lunga, non è, donna, chi giunga, s’umiltà non v’aggiungi e cortesia: il montar cresce, e ’l mie valore scema, e la lena mi manca a mezza via. Che tuo beltà pur sia superna, al cor par che diletto renda, che d’ogni rara altezza è ghiotto e vago: po’ per gioir della tuo leggiadria bramo pur che discenda là dov’aggiungo. E ’n tal pensier m’appago,



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That I can neither say nor even think How much I am not I. Why, then, do I not fly Much higher, having your swift wings, and reach The beauty of your eyes, And stay with you forever? Did not God Promise to give our bodies paradise? Perhaps it is my luck that I should have Body and soul asunder, through your grace, And that my soul alone should reach your face.

(G 155; T 109-44) Lady, your beauty and my destiny Have such diverse effects, to make me find What stands between man’s happiness and joy. While you, so sweet and kind Within, appear most beautiful to me And my burning desire, My cruel destiny offends my joy And takes all dreams of happiness away; But if, in pity over my dismay, It yields to my desire, I lose your pity, then. No, there is nothing at all, to ease one’s fears, Between one’s bliss and tears.

(G 156; T 109-76)123 To your so lofty lucent diadem, No one, O lady, can arrive, for steep And long is still the road, unless you help With your humility and gentle hand. I cannot climb, my strength Is failing me, I stray, My breath is over at half-way. Oh, happy Am I to see your beauty so sublime, For nothing else could please My heart, in love with only what is bliss Beyond all things and time; But, so that I may praise your very height,

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se ’l tuo sdegno presago, per basso amare e alto odiar tuo stato, a te stessa perdona il mie peccato.

(G 157; T 109-80) Pietosa e dolce aita tuo, donna, teco insieme, per le mie parte streme spargon dal cor gli spirti della vita, onde l’alma, impedita del suo natural corso pel subito gioir, da me diparti. Po’ l’aspra tuo partita, per mie mortal soccorso, tornan superchi al cor gli spirti sparti. S’a me veggio tornarti, dal cor di nuovo dipartir gli sento; onde d’equal tormento e l’aita e l’offesa mortal veggio: el mezzo, a chi troppo ama, è sempre il peggio. (G 158; T 109-81) Amor, la morte a forza del pensier par mi scacci, e con tal grazia impacci l’alma che, senza, sarie più contenta. Caduto è ’l frutto e secca è già la scorza, e quel, già dolce, amaro or par ch’i’ senta; anzi, sol mi tormenta, nell’ultim’ore e corte, infinito piacere in breve spazio. Sì, tal mercé, spaventa tuo pietà tardi e forte, c’al corpo è morte, e al diletto strazio; ond’io pur ti ringrazio in questa età: ché s’i’ muoio in tal sorte, tu ’l fai più con mercé che con la morte.



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Descend where I can reach! This is the thought That comforts me, whenever I foresee your disdain, – My very sin forgiving you for coming Closer to me with all such beauty bright Down from your hated height. (G 157; T 109-80) Lady, the spirits of life Spread from my heart to all parts of my body, Along with you, the mercy of your smile; And so, in a short while, You take away from me my soul, no longer Breathing as it was the moment before. But when, to my dismay, You seem to run away, My spirits come to rescue me from death; And if you come again, they leave once more My heart, and stop my breath. Mortal are both your help and your offense: To one who loves too much There is no greater anguish than suspense.

(G 158; T 109-81)124 O Love, you seem to chase Death forcibly away from each my thought; But so much by your grace Is my soul overwrought, That it would feel much happier, without. The fruit is fallen, and the rind is dry, And what was sweet, now bitter seems to taste. Now, in my last brief hours, It is my torture this infinite bliss In such a narrow space. I am afraid Of all your sudden mercy, long-delayed, Which is death to my body, and distress To this my very joy. And yet, O Love, I thank you and I bless you In my old age: for, if I die of this, I know it comes from you, and not from death.

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(G 159; T 109-82) Per esser manco, alta signora, indegno del don di vostra immensa cortesia, prima, all’incontro a quella, usar la mia con tutto il cor volse ’l mie basso ingegno. Ma visto poi, c’ascendere a quel segno propio valor non è c’apra la via, perdon domanda la mie audacia ria, e del fallir più saggio ognor divegno. E veggio ben com’erra s’alcun crede la grazia, che da voi divina piove, pareggi l’opra mia caduca e frale. L’ingegno, l’arte, la memoria cede: c’un don celeste non con mille pruove pagar del suo può già chi è mortale. (G 160; T 90) S’alcun legato è pur dal piacer molto, come da morte altrui tornare in vita, qual cosa è che po’ paghi tanta aita, che renda il debitor libero e sciolto? E se pur fusse, ne sarebbe tolto il soprastar d’una mercé infinita al ben servito, onde sarie ’mpedita da l’incontro servire, a quella volto. Dunche, per tener alta vostra grazia, donna, sopra ’l mie stato, in me sol bramo ingratitudin più che cortesia: ché dove l’un dell’altro al par si sazia, non mi sare’ signor quel che tant’amo: ché ’n parità non cape signoria. (G 161; T 87) Per qual mordace lima discresce e manca ognor tuo stanca spoglia, anima inferma? or quando fie ti scioglia da quella il tempo, e torni ov’eri, in cielo, candida e lieta prima, deposto il periglioso e mortal velo? C’ancor ch’i’ cangi ’l pelo



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(G 159; T 109-82)125 O noble Lady, countless times, to be Less unworthy of your great gentleness, My low intelligence has tried to guess A way to thank you for your gift to me. But, knowing that my worth is powerless To reach your virtue’s infinite degree, I only have enough audacity To beg you to forgive my littleness. Wrong, I can see, are those who think the splendor Of the grace showering, divine, from you Can be approached by my soon-dying art. Intellect, art, and memory surrender: No heaven’s gift can be exchanged – how true – With a gift coming from a mortal heart. (G 160; T 90)126 Should someone, much obliged, want to forget That he was brought from death to life again, What thing could so much pay for such a gain, As to unloose the debtor from his debt? And, should this be, exchange would so beset Both giver and receiver as to chain The grace once infinite; it would be vain, Then, to expect another favor yet. Therefore, my lady, just to keep your grace Above my longings of exchange, I serve More with ingratitude than courtesy. For, should we ever be in equal place, How could your love be more than I deserve? No lordship fits into equality. (G 161; T 87)127 Tell me, O soul, what file Abrades your strength and makes it less each day? When, freed at last from all this weary clay, Will you return to heaven, and resume Your innocent first smile, After the peril of the earth, the gloom? Being so close to the tomb,

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per gli ultim’anni e corti, cangiar non posso il vecchio mie antico uso, che con più giorni più mi sforza e preme. Amore, a te nol celo, ch’i’ porto invidia a’ morti, sbigottito e confuso, sì di sé meco l’alma trema e teme. Signor, nell’ore streme, stendi ver’ me le tuo pietose braccia, tomm’a me stesso e famm’un che ti piaccia. (G 162; T 109-97) A la Marchesa di Pescara. Ora in sul destro, ora in sul manco piede variando, cerco della mie salute. Fra ’l vizio e la virtute il cor confuso mi travaglia e stanca, come chi ’l ciel non vede, che per ogni sentier si perde e manca. Porgo la carta bianca a’ vostri sacri inchiostri, c’amor mi sganni e pietà ’l ver ne scriva: che l’alma, da sé franca, non pieghi agli error nostri mie breve resto, e che men cieco viva. Chieggio a voi, alta e diva donna, saper se ’n ciel men grado tiene l’umil peccato che ’l superchio bene.

(G 163; T 109-98) Quante più fuggo e odio ognor me stesso, tanto a te, donna, con verace speme ricorro; e manco teme l’alma di me, quant’a te son più presso. A quel che ’l ciel promesso m’ha nel tuo volto aspiro e ne’ begli occhi, pien d’ogni salute: e ben m’accorgo spesso, in quel c’ogni altri miro, che gli occhi senza ’l cor non han virtute. Luci già mai vedute!



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In these remaining years I may change outwardly, but not within, For stronger, in weak flesh, becomes my sin. O Love, you must be told That I envy the dead, And my soul is afraid Of me, dismayed and trembling. O my Lord, Give me, in my last hours, Your pardoning arms! Oh steal me from myself, And make me one of those who please you. Lord! (G 162; T 109-97)128 To the Marquise of Pescara. Turning right, and then left, My salvation I seek. Bewildered, lost between virtue and love, My heart is wearying me. I am like one Who does not look above, And goes from dark to darker path, astray. Oh, take my paper, blank, And write on it your words of sanctity, So that love stop its cruel tyranny, And pity may at last show me the truth; And, cleansed and free, no more shall my soul yield, In my last days, to all my old mistakes, And I shall walk, less blind, my life’s last field. Lady divine and pure, oh tell me, please, Whether in heaven a repented sinner Is less rewarded than a constant winner. (G 163; T 109-98)129 The more I hate myself, the more I speed To you for help, my lady, In this my greater need, For, close to you, my soul no longer fears. I find in your sweet eyes God-promised paradise And my salvation; if I look elsewhere, I only find despair. Beautiful eyes I cannot see enough, I cannot love enough, to my regret! Seldom to see is almost to forget.

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né da vederle è men che ’l gran desio; ché ’l veder raro è prossimo a l’oblio. (G 164; T 94) Per fido esemplo alla mia vocazione nel parto mi fu data la bellezza, che d’ambo l’arti m’è lucerna e specchio. S’altro si pensa, è falsa opinione. Questo sol l’occhio porta a quella altezza c’a pingere e scolpir qui m’apparecchio. S’e’ giudizi temerari e sciocchi al senso tiran la beltà, che muove e porta al cielo ogni intelletto sano, dal mortale al divin non vanno gli occhi infermi, e fermi sempre pur là d’ove ascender senza grazia è pensier vano. (G 165; T 95) Se ’l commodo degli occhi alcun costringe con l’uso, parte insieme la ragion perde, e teme; ché più s’inganna quel c’a sé più crede: onde nel cor dipinge per bello quel c’a picciol beltà cede. Ben vi fo, donna, fede che ’l commodo né l’uso non m’ha preso, sì di raro e’ mie veggion gli occhi vostri circonscritti ov’a pena il desir vola. Un punto sol m’ha acceso, né più vi vidi c’una volta sola. (G 166; T 109-8) Ben posson gli occhi mie presso e lontano veder dov’apparisce il tuo bel volto; ma dove loro, ai pie’, donna, è ben tolto portar le braccia e l’una e l’altra mano. L’anima, l’intelletto intero e sano per gli occhi ascende più libero e sciolto a l’alta tuo beltà; ma l’ardor molto non dà tal previlegio al corp’umano



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(G 164; T 94)130 As symbol of what I was to do, Mirror and lamp of both arts, beauty bright Was given to me the moment of my birth. If something else you hear, that is not true. Beauty alone can lift me to that height Which I have tried to sculpt and paint on earth. Now, if opinions foolish and unwise Snare into sense that beauty which should be Our only door to heaven, our primal need, From what is death to what is God no eyes Of man can soar: but, though imperfect, we Are able to ascend if grace precede. (G 165; T 95)131 Through use, one’s easy eyes can become faint, And one, then, loses reason And must expect all treason, For nothing can deceive worse than one’s eyes: The heart begins to paint As beauty but a small and fair device. O lady, I assure you, neither ease Nor use has stirred my sight and taken me For seldom do my eyes perceive your face To which only my longing can advance. It took that first sweet glance to waken me: To know you well, I had to gaze but once. (G 166; T 109-8)132 Both far and near, my eyes can easily see Where your grace beams and makes that place complete; But, lady, I can never lift my feet, And there my arms and hands can never be. My soul, my intellect, undaunted, free, Soar with my eyes and instantly can greet Your deathless beauty; but no flesh’s heat Can make my human body speed and flee.

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grave e mortal, sì che mal segue poi, senz’ali ancor, d’un’angioletta il volo, e ’l veder sol pur se ne gloria e loda. Deh, se tu puo’ nel ciel quante tra noi, fa’ del mie corpo tutto un occhio solo; né fie poi parte in me che non ti goda. (G 167; T 109-65) La morte, Amor, del mie medesmo loco, del qual, già nudo, trïonfar solevi non che con l’arco e co’ pungenti strali, ti scaccia e sprezza, e col fier ghiaccio il foco tuo dolce ammorza, c’ha dì corti e brevi. In ogni cor veril men di le’ vali; e se ben porti l’ali, con esse mi giugnesti, or fuggi e temi, c’ogni età verde è schifa a’ giorni stremi.

(G 168; T 109-66-69-70) Perché ’l mezzo di me che dal ciel viene a quel con gran desir ritorna e vola, restando in una sola di beltà donna, e ghiaccio ardendo in lei, in duo parte mi tiene contrarie sì, che l’una all’altra invola il ben che non diviso aver devrei. Ma se già ma’ costei cangia ’l suo stile, e c’a l’un mezzo manchi il ciel, quel mentre c’a le’ grato sia, e’ mie sì sparsi e stanchi pensier fien tutti in quella donna mia; e se ’lor che m’è pia, l’alma il ciel caccia, almen quel tempo spero non più mezz’esser, ma suo tutto intero. (G 169; T 109-73) Nel mie ’rdente desio, coste’ pur mi trastulla, di fuor pietosa e nel cor aspra e fera. Amor, non tel diss’io,



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My mortal burden, wingless, cannot spring Behind an angel flying glad and high: I only boast of seeing such a thing. Oh, if you can above as much as here, Make my whole body but one open eye, So every part of me will have its share. (G 167; T 109-65) Death chases you, O Love, from that same place In which you triumphed once Not only with your bow and with your darts, But with your naked dance; And with her ice she freezes All your sweet fire. Love, so brief and low. Maturity of heart heeds death, not you; And if you still have wings, With them, oh, fly as rapidly away As when you reached me here! In one’s last days, green age reminds of fear. (G 168; T 109-66-69-70)133 Because that half of me, which comes from heaven, Longingly goes to heaven back and forth, While, burning for the beauty of my lady, Stays here my second half, I am so much divided, between this And that, that each, alas, steals from the other The happiness and bliss That would be mine, were I a unity. But, should she change toward me, And take away from my first half God’s grace, All of my thoughts would be, Oh, for my lady’s face; And if to heaven I am enemy, While she is kind to me, at least that time I shall no more be half, but all of her. (G 169; T 109-73)134 This woman loves to play With my ardent desire, – She who is sweet, without, and harsh, within. Did I not tell you. Love, of all this fire

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ch’e’ no’ ne sare’ nulla e che ’l suo perde chi ’n quel d’altri spera? Or s’ella vuol ch’i’ péra, mie colpa, e danno s’ha prestarle fede, com’a chi poco manca a chi più crede.

(G 170; T 109-74) Spargendo gran bellezza ardente foco per mille cori accesi, come cosa è che pesi, c’un solo ancide, a molti è lieve e poco. Ma, chiuso in picciol loco, s’il sasso dur calcina, che l’acque poi il dissolvon ’n un momento, come per pruova il sa chi ’l ver dicerne: così d’una divina de mille il foco ho drento c’arso m’ha ’l cor nelle mie parte interne; ma le lacrime etterne se quel dissolvon già sì duro e forte, fie me’ null’esser c’arder senza morte. (G 171; T 109-75) Nella memoria delle cose belle morte bisogna, per tor di costui il volto a lei, com’a vo’ tolto ha lui; se ’l foco in ghiaccio e ’l riso volge in pianto, con tale odio di quelle, che del cor voto più non si dien vanto. Ma se rimbotta alquanto i suo begli occhi nell’usato loco, fien legne secche in un ardente foco.

(G 172; T 109-77) Costei pur si delibra, indomit’ e selvaggia, ch’i’ arda, mora e caggia a quel c’a peso non sie pure un’oncia; e ’l sangue a libra a libra mi svena, e sfibra e ’l corpo all’alma sconcia.



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Nothing would come at all, And that one loses everything one has, Hoping to get from others? But, alas, If now she wants me to succumb and die, It is my fault, not hers, for it was I Who first believed her lie. (G 170; T 109-74)135 Great beauty showering its ardent fire On many burning hearts Is like a burden that can kill but one, And, falling on too many, injures none. But as, constrained in a small place alone, Fire makes lime of stone, And water, then, dissolves it in brief time, As everybody knows: So, in my heart, I keep all lovers’ flames, Which have already burned my inmost self. But if eternal tears Will soon dissolve what once was strong and hard, Oh, it will be much better for my heart To be annulled, than burn and never die. (G 171; T 109-75)136 Into the memory of all things fair Let Death first enter, if she thinks it easy To rub away his face, as he has done, From you, and if she thinks That, having turned all laughter into tears, All fire into ice, she now has won Your empty heart with fears. But if he still, though dead, can turn his eyes To his beloved earth with new desire, Dry wood is added to your burning fire. (G 172; T 109-77)137 Indomitable, wild, This woman has decided That I must burn until I die, and perish Beneath a burden lighter than thin air. And how she seems to cherish, Drop by drop, all my blood,

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La si gode e racconcia nel suo fidato specchio, ove sé vede equale al paradiso; po’, volta a me, mi concia sì, c’oltr’all’esser vecchio, in quel col mie fo più bello il suo viso, ond’io vie più deriso son d’esser brutto; e pur m’è gran ventura, s’i’ vinco, a farla bella, la natura. (G 173; T 109-89) Se dal cor lieto divien bello il volto, dal tristo il brutto; e se donna aspra e bella il fa, chi fie ma’ quella che non arda di me com’io di lei? Po’ c’a destinguer molto dalla mie chiara stella da bello a bel fur fatti gli occhi mei, contr’a sé fa costei non men crudel che spesso dichi: – Dal cor mie smorto il volto viene. – Che s’altri fa se stesso, pingendo donna, in quella che farà poi, se sconsolato il tiene? Dunc’ambo n’arien bene ritrarla col cor lieto e ’l viso asciutto: sé farie bella e me non farie brutto.

(G 174; T 109-90) Per quel che di vo’, donna, di fuor veggio, quantunche dentro al ver l’occhio non passi, spero a’ mie stanchi e lassi pensier riposo a qualche tempo ancora; e ’l più saperne il peggio, del vostro interno, forse al mie mal fora. Se crudeltà dimora ’n un cor che pietà vera co’ begli occhi prometta a’ pianti nostri,



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Draining my veins, my strength, until my body Becomes too weak to bear my soul. All preened, She looks into her mirror, gay and vain, And sees herself as beautiful as God; Then, turned to me again, with her sweet eyes She makes my old age uglier than ever, Which I myself despise. But more than nature I am powerful, If, ugly, I can make her beautiful. (G 173; T 109-89)138 If, contented, the heart Gives beauty to the face, And, unhappy, gives only ugliness; And if a harsh, beautiful woman is The reason for all this, Can there be one who does not burn for me As I do now for her? Since I was born Under a star that gave my eyes the light To recognize all beauty where it is, I know she is the one Who, cruel to herself as well as me, Makes me exclaim: “Alas, my ugliness Comes from my joyless heart.” For, if an artist paints just as he is, How will he paint a woman Who keeps him in distress? It would be better, then, for both of us If I could paint her with a happy heart And with a tearless face: She would gain beauty – I, no ugliness. (G 174; T 109-90)139 With that alone, O lady, which I see In your eyes (for I never shall discern The secrets of your heart), I hope to comfort still my weary thoughts. To know you more would make, perhaps, my smart Far worse than it is now. If cruelty can dwell In one who can so well Promise me happiness with her sweet brow,

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ben sarebb’ora l’ora, c’altro già non si spera d’onesto amor, che quel ch’è di fuor mostri. Donna, s’agli occhi vostri contraria è l’alma, e io, pur contro a quella, godo gl’inganni d’una donna bella. (G 175; T 124) No’ salda, Amor, de’ tuo dorati strali fra le mie vecchie ancor la minor piaga, che la mente, presaga del mal passato, a peggio mi traporti. Se ne’ vecchi men vali, campar dovria, se non fa’ guerra a’ morti. S’a l’arco l’alie porti contra me zoppo e nudo, con gli occhi per insegna, c’ancidon più ch’e’ tuo più feri dardi, chi fia che mi conforti? Elmo non già né scudo, ma sol quel che mi segna d’onor, perdendo, e biasmo a te, se m’ardi. Debile vecchio, è tardi la fuga e lenta, ov’è posto ’l mie scampo; e chi vince a fuggir, non resti in campo.

(G 176; T 109-43) Mestier non era all’alma tuo beltate legar me vinto con alcuna corda; ché, se ben mi ricorda, sol d’uno sguardo fui prigione e preda: c’alle gran doglie usate forz’è c’un debil cor subito ceda. Ma chi fie ma’ che ’l creda, preso da’ tuo begli occhi in brevi giorni, un legno secco e arso verde torni? (G 177; T 109-67) Sopra il deposito della Mancina.



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This is the time: for one who truly loves, Truly believes in what a woman shows. My lady, if your soul Is not at all what your fair eyes imply, In spite of all this, I Enjoy your beauty and forgive your lie. (G 175; T 124)140 O Love, the least of all my ancient wounds – From your swift, golden darts – Is hardly healed, and here you are again, Tossing my mind, aware of all the past, Into far worse dismay. People believe and say You leave old age alone; then I should live, Unless you fight the dead. With both your wing and bow you come, instead, Against me, limping, bare. Oh, if you use as flag those happy eyes Which kill me more than all your fiercest darts, Who will console my heart? No shield, no helmet helps: only to run Away from you can honor my defeat, And shame your ruthless fight. O weak, old man, it is too late: your feet Are slow, and your protector is not near. And he who only wins, running away, In battle should not stay. (G 176; T 109-43) Did your beauty, perhaps, want to make sure? You did not have to bind My heart with other string, For with one glance you had already done it. Being not strong, to its old suffering My heart had to surrender. Such a thing Who could ever believe? If your sweet eyes Look at an old, dead bough, in a short while It lives again – is all a green, fresh smile. (G 177; T 109-67)141 On the Death of the Mancina.

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In noi vive e qui giace la divina beltà da morte anz’il suo tempo offesa. Se con la dritta man face’ difesa, campava. Onde nol fe’? Ch’era mancina. (G 178; T 109-68) Risposta di messer Michelagnolo a messer Candolfo alle rime sopra la Mancina. La nuova alta beltà che ’n ciel terrei unica, non c’al mondo iniquo e fello (suo nome dal sinistro braccio tiello il vulgo, cieco a non adorar lei), per voi sol nacque; e far non la saprei con ferri in pietra, in carte col pennello; ma ’l vivo suo bel viso esser può quello nel qual vostro sperar fermar dovrei. E se, come dal sole ogni altra stella è vinta, vince l’intelletto nostro, per voi non di men pregio esser dovea. Dunche, a quetarvi, è suo beltà novella da Dio formata all’alto desir vostro; e quel solo, e non io, far lo potea. (G 179-228; T 73-1) Per la morte di Cechino Bracci. Se qui son chiusi i begli occhi e sepolti anzi tempo, sol questo ne conforta: che pietà di lor vivi era qua morta; or che son morti, di lor vive in molti. (G 180; T 73-2) Deh serbi, s’è di me pietate alcuna che qui son chiuso e dal mondo disciolto, le lacrime a bagnarsi il petto e ’l volto per chi resta suggetto alla fortuna. (G 181; T 73-3) – Perché ne’ volti offesi non entrasti dagli anni, Morte, e c’anzi tempo i’ mora? – Perché nel ciel non sale e non dimora cosa che ’nvecchi e parte il mondo guasti.



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Here lies that divine beauty Death offended Long before time. Alas, had she believed In using her right hand, she would have lived; But how could she? Her name was but “Left-Handed.” (G 178; T 109-68)142 Answer of Messer Michelagnolo to Messer Gandolfo’s verses on the Mancina. That new, high beauty I would gladly name The only one in heaven, not on this vile And evil earth (blind to her siren smile, People called her “Left-Handed” with no shame), Was born for you alone. I would not aim To paint with brush, or carve in stone with file, Her living face whose eyes do not beguile Your hope: oh, this, I would, then, have to claim. And if her beauty overcomes our mind Just as the sun all other stars, you know Of that high splendor more than I can guess. Therefore, to soothe your sorrow, God designed To place it higher, where your soul may go, Still loving. I could not achieve all this. (G 179-228; T 73-1)143 In Memoriam Cecchino Bracci. If, buried here, those beautiful eyes are closed Forever, this is now my requiem: They were alive and no one noticed them; Now everybody weeps them, dead and lost. (G 180; T 73-2) If you have any pity left for one Whose body is earth while all his soul is star, Keep all for me your tears, who wear the scar Of fortune, and am wearied, and am won. (G 181; T 73-3) “O Death, why did you not await the years With wrinkles, taking me before my time?” “Because a thing grown old can never climb, Marred by the world, to God’s celestial spheres.”

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(G 182; T 73-4) Non volse Morte non ancider senza l’arme degli anni e de’ superchi giorni la beltà che qui giace, acciò c’or torni al ciel con la non persa sua presenza. (G 183; T 73-5) La beltà che qui giace al mondo vinse di tanto ogni più bella creatura, che morte, ch’era in odio alla natura, per farsi amica a lei, l’ancise e stinse. (G 184; T 73-6) Qui son de’ Bracci, deboli a l’impresa contr’a la morte mia per non morire; meglio era esser de’ piedi per fuggire che de’ Bracci e non far da lei difesa. (G 185; T 73-7) Qui son sepulto, e poco innanzi nato ero: e son quello al qual fu presta e cruda la morte sì, che l’alma di me nuda s’accorge a pena aver cangiato stato. (G 186; T 73-8) Non può per morte già chi qui mi serra la beltà, c’al mortal mie largir volse, renderla agli altri tutti a chi la tolse, s’alfin com’ero de’ rifarmi in terra. L’ amico vostro morto parla e dice: Se ’l cielo tolse ogni bellezza a tucti gli altri uomini del mondo per far me solo, come fece, bello, e se per leggie divina al di de Giudicio io debba ritornare il medesmo che vivo son stato, ne seguita, che la bellezza, che m’ a data, non la puo rendere a chi e’ l’ a tolta, ma che io debba esser bello piu che gli altri in ecterno, e lor bructi. E questo è el contrario del concecto, che mi dicesti ieri; e l’ uno è favola, e l’ altro è verita. Vostro, Michelagniolo Buonarroti.



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(G 182; T 73-4) With no weapon of age Death chose to slay Innocent beauty, sadly buried here, So that it may return to its prime sphere Just as it was in its brief earthly day. (G 183; T 73-5) Sweet beauty, lying here, so much surpassed All things of earth and every living creature, That Death, still hating what is fair in nature, Decided to make friends with this at last. (G 184; T 73-6) My name is “Arms”: they had no sword nor sling To chase death back, advancing for a prey. I wish I had been “Feet” to run away, And not mere “Arms” that cannot do a thing. (G 185; T 73-7) Here I am buried, who a while ago Was born. Death was so quick and hard to me, That now my soul, although forever free, Can hardly tell of any change or blow. (G 186; T 73-8) God Who, through death, is keeping me still here Will give each man his mortal beauty back; But when the dead shall have their beauty back, Mine will shine brighter than it did last year. Your dead friend speaks and says: “Since God took all beauty awayfrom others to make me alone, as He did, beautiful; and since, by divine law, on Judgment Day, I shall again possess the beauty that was mine on earth, we can say, therefore, that He cannot give back their beauty to those from whom He took it away, but that I shall be the most beautiful forever, and they just ugly.” And this is not at all what you told me last night. One thing is nonsense; the other is truth. Yours, Michelagnolo Buonarroti.

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Quande voi non ne volete, non mi mandate piu niente. (G 191; T 73-13) Se l’alma vive del suo corpo fora, la mie, che par che qui di sé mi privi, il mostra col timor ch’i’ rendo a’ vivi: che nol po far chi tutto avvien che mora. (G 192; T 73-14) S’è ver, com’è, che dopo il corpo viva, da quel disciolta, c’a mal grado regge sol per divina legge, l’alma e non prima, allor sol è beata; po’ che per morte diva è fatta sì, com’a morte era nata. Dunche, sine peccata, in riso ogni suo doglia preschiver debbe alcun del suo defunto,



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(G 187; T 73-9) Being within, his own soul could not see What we saw – his fair face now in this tomb. Since heaven is as beautiful a room, It gladly yielded to death’s tyranny. (G 188; T 73-10) Since in this handsome face Nature was won By death, now heaven is prepared to take Revenge: become immortal, soon this shape Will rise from all our darkness to the sun. (G 189; T 73-11) Here those sweet eyes are shut (O woe to us!), Which used to make the holiest looks less bright. If, being dead, they still can grant us light, Ours is a wondrous gain, and not a loss. (G 190; T 73-12) They think me dead. To please the earth I lived, And found in countless lovers my true friends: Since a true friendship never fails or ends, Living in them, no death have I received. If you don’t want any more of these, don’t send me anything. (G 191; T 73-13) That the soul is alive beyond the fall Of the body, which, rid of life, lies here, The living’s fright should prove: why do they fear My vision, then, if I am dead at all? (G 192; T 73-14) If it is true the soul, when ends our breath, Freed from a body held unwillingly, Can live at last, and be, Not as before, much blest, In eternity dressed; Sine peccata, in rest Of song and mirth, then, who is still alive On earth should now rejoice With one who did arrive

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A non parlar qualche volta, se bene scorrecto, in gramatica mi sarebbe vergognia, sendo tanto pratico con voi. Il sonecto di messer Donato mi par bello quante cosa facta a tempi nostri; ma perch’io o cactivo gusto, non posso far manco stima d’un panno, facto di nuovo, benche Romagnuolo, che delle veste, usate di seta e d’oro, che faren parer bello un uom da sarti. Scrivetegniene e ditegniene e dategniene e racomandatemi a lui. (G 193; T 73-15) A pena prima aperti gli vidd’io i suo begli occhi in questa fragil vita, che, chiusi el dì dell’ultima partita, gli aperse in cielo a contemplare Dio. Conosco e piango, e non fu l’error mio, col cor sì tardi a lor beltà gradita, ma di morte anzi tempo, ond’è sparita a voi non già, m’al mie ’rdente desio. Dunche, Luigi, a far l’unica forma di Cecchin, di ch’i’ parlo, in pietra viva etterna, or ch’è già terra qui tra noi, se l’un nell’altro amante si trasforma, po’ che sanz’essa l’arte non v’arriva, convien che per far lui ritragga voi. Messer Luigi, i quactro versi ultimi degli octo di sopra del sonecto, che vi mandai ieri, si contradicono; pero vi prego, che melo rimandiate, o che apichiate questi in luogo di quegli, accio sie manco goffo, o voi melo rachoncate. (G 194; T 73-16) Qui vuol mie sorte c’anzi tempo i’ dorma, né son già morto; e ben c’albergo cangi, resto in te vivo, c’or mi vedi e piangi, se l’un nell’altro amante si trasforma.



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At God’s true peace and shall no longer strive. Let this be, then, the longing of true friends – To be with God, and not with time that ends.

I would feel ashamed of my occasional grammatical blunders were I not intimate with you. The sonnet by Messer Donato seems to me as beautiful as anything done in our days; but, my taste being bad, I cannot esteem a new suit made in Romagna more than I do those silk-and-gold old garments which don a wooden bust in a tailor’s shop. Write to him and tell him about it but give him my greetings and my devotion. (G 193; T 73-15) Oh, I had hardly seen those beautiful eyes Which made your own more lustrous and more gay! They were soon closed to their earth-given day And opened up to God in paradise. Late – I admit it – did I recognize Those eyes’ consoling and befriending ray; But death I blame, which quickly came to slay, O not that beauty, but my heart’s advice. So, Luigi, to make Cecchino’s face Still live on earth through stone that is alive And deathless; to protect this bit of dust, One thing is left to me now – to retrace His features in your own. Art cannot strive Unless love moves it by its inner trust. Messer Luigi, the last four of the eight lines of the sonnet which I sent you yesterday are contradictory indeed; I beg you, therefore, to send it back or to substitute these lines for those, so as to make it less awkward. Or you can fix it yourself. (G 194; T 73-16) I am not dead, for now I dwell above, Though fate decreed that I should seem to sleep: I live in you, who see me still, and weep, For lovers become one, only through love.

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Io non velo volevo mandare, perche è cosa molto goffa; ma le trote e tartufi sforzerebono il cielo. A voi mi rachomando. (G 195; T 73-17) – Se qui cent’anni t’han tolto due ore, un lustro è forza che l’etterno inganni. – No: che ’n un giorno è vissuto cent’anni colui che ’n quello il tutto impara e muore. Uno che vede Cechino morto e parlagli, e Cechino gli risponde.

(G 196; T 73-18) Gran ventura qui morto esser mi veggio: tal dota ebbi dal cielo, anzi che veglio; ché, non possendo al mondo darmi meglio, ogni altro che la morte era ’l mie peggio. Ora è finita la promessa de quindici polizini, non vene son piu obrigato, se altro non viene dal paradiso, dov’ è. (G 197; T 73-19) La carne terra, e qui l’ossa mie, prive de’ lor begli occhi e del leggiadro aspetto, fan fede a quel ch’i’ fu’ grazia e diletto in che carcer quaggiù l’anima vive. [Fan fede a quel ch’ i’ fu’ gratia nel lecto, che abbracciava, e ’n che l’anima vive.] Pigliate questi dua versi disocto, che son cosa morale; e questo vi mando per la recta de quindici polizini. (G 198; T 73-20) Se fussin, perch’i’ viva un’altra volta, gli altru’ pianti a quest’ossa carne e sangue, sarie spietato per pietà chi langue per rilegar lor l’alma in ciel disciolta. Per i fungi insalati, po’ che non volete altro.



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This is very awkward and I was not going to send it to you; but your trout and your truffles would tempt even God. Remember me always. (G 195; T 73-17) “If but two hours can sweep a hundred years, Five years can make us lose eternity.” “Oh no! Who in one day has lived a century, He knows the world with all its doubts and fears.” A dialogue between one who sees dead Cecchino and questions him, and Cecchino, who answers. (G 196; T 73-18) Happy am I for having died, oh long Before old age could show its face unkind. A better thing for me God could not find, And spared me every evil, every wrong. I have kept my promise of fifteen epitaphs; now I feel no longer obliged to you, if inspiration should not come from paradise, where he lives. (G 197; T 73-19)144 The flesh, now earth, and my few bones, now ridden Of my sweet eyes and of my pleasing sight, Remind the one to whom I gave delight Of the dark jail in which my soul was hidden. Remind the one who held me very tight Of love in bed to which my soul was bidden. Take these two extra lines as a moral lesson: and this, I send you as a bill for my fifteen epitaphs. (G 198; T 73-20) If people’s tears, to make me live again, Could dress with blood and flesh these bones that lie, Most cruel are to me all those who cry To trap once more my soul, now free from chain. This, to thank you for that salad of mushrooms, since you are so easily pleased.

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Questo goffo, decto mille volte, pe finochi.

(G 200; T 73-22) S’i’ fu’ già vivo, tu sol, pietra, il sai, che qui mi serri, e s’alcun mi ricorda, gli par sognar: sì morte è presta e ’ngorda, che quel ch’è stato non par fusse mai. (G 201; T 73-23) I’ temo più, fuor degli anni e dell’ore che m’han qui chiuso, il ritornare in vita, s’esser può qua, ch’i’ non fe’ la partita; po’ c’allor nacqui ove la morte muore. Questo dicono le trote, e non io; pero, s’ e versi non vi piacciono, non le marinate piu senza pepe.

(G 202; T 73-24) I’ fu de’ Bracci, e se ritratto e privo restai dell’alma, or m’è cara la morte, po’ che tal opra ha sì benigna sorte d’entrar dipinto ov’io non pote’ vivo. (G 203; T 73-25) De’ Bracci nacqui, e dopo ’l primo pianto, picciol tempo il sol vider gli occhi mei. Qui son per sempre; né per men vorrei, s’i’ resto vivo in quel che m’amò tanto. (G 204; T 73-26) Più che vivo non ero, morto sono vivo e caro a chi morte oggi m’ha tolto; se più c’averne copia or m’ama molto, chi cresce per mancar, gli è ’l morir buono.



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(G 199; T 73-21) He who, seeing me dead, still cries and cries, Wetting my bones, my tombstone, hopes in vain That a dry tree may fructify again: Once dead, to the sweet Spring no man can rise. This awkward thing, already said a thousand times, for the fennels.

(G 200; T 73-22) If once I was alive, you alone recall, O tombstone covering me. All those who seem Still to remember me, think of a dream, Almost as something never been at all. (G 201; T 73-23) Now that from time’s swift treason I have fled, To be restored to life I dread much more Than I once feared to leave this desert shore: For I was only born when death was dead. Your trout speak this – not I; but if you are not pleased with these lines, no more pepperless marinades.

(G 202; T 73-24) I was a Bracci; though I am but shadow, Let me tell you that death has loved me so, That, in the form of painting, I can go At last where I could not with my quick body. (G 203; T 73-25) A Bracci I was born: after the tears Of birth, for a short while I saw the day. I do not mind the splendor run away, If I still live in him who held me dear. (G 204; T 73-26) I was only alive; but, dead, I grew Dearer to him who lost me when I died. He loves me more than when I lay beside him: Then good is death if love, for it, grows too.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 205; T 73-27) Se morte ha di virtù qui ’l primo fiore del mondo e di beltà, non bene aperto, anzi tempo sepulto, i’ son ben certo che più non si dorrà chi vecchio muore. (G 206; T 73-28) Dal ciel fu la beltà mie diva e ’ntera, e ’l corpo sol mortal dal padre mio. Se morto è meco quel che ebbi d’Iddio che dunche il mortal sol da morte spera?

Io vi rimando i melloni col polizino e ’l disegnio non ancora, ma lo faro a ogni modo, come posso meglio disegniare. Rachomandatemi a Baccio e ditegli, che se io avessi avuto qua di quegli intingoli che e’ mi dava costa, ch’ i’ sarei oggi un altro Gratiano; e lo ringratiate da mia parte. (G 207; T 73-29) Per sempre a morte, e prima a voi fu’ dato sol per un’ora; e con diletto tanto porta’ bellezza, e po’ lasciai tal pianto che ’l me’ sarebbe non esser ma’ nato. Per la tortola; pe pesci fara Urbino, che se gli a pappati. (G 208; T 73-30) Qui chiuso è ’l sol di c’ancor piangi e ardi: l’alma suo luce fu corta ventura. Men grazia e men ricchezza assai più dura; c’a’ miseri la morte è pigra e tardi. (G 209; T 73-31) Qui sol per tempo convien posi e dorma per render bello el mie terrestre velo; ché più grazia o beltà non have ’l cielo, c’alla natura fussi esempro e norma. (G 210; T 73-32) Se gli occhi aperti mie fur vita e pace d’alcun, qui chiusi, or chi gli è pace e vita? Beltà non già, che del mond’è sparita, ma morte sol, s’ogni suo ben qui giace.



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(G 205; T 73-27) If death has plucked a tender blossom here, A tender bud not fully burgeoned yet, I know there shall not be any regret In one who, old and weary, leaves the year. (G 206; T 73-28) From heaven all my perfect beauty came, My father gave me only what soon dies. Dead is with me my gift from paradise; But for my body, death I do not blame. I am returning the melons with this epitaph, but not yet the sketch, which, however, I will do as I shall be in a better mood to draw. Remember me to Baccio, and tell him that, could I taste here one of those delicious stews he used to prepare for me there, I would certainly be another Graziano. Thank him in my name. (G 207; T 73-29) I am of death, who once for a brief morn Was yours; with my sweet beauty I did spread So much delight, then tears when I was dead: Better it would have been not to be born. This, for the turtle; Urbino will take care of the fish: he has greedily devoured them all. (G 208; T 73-30) The sun is buried, which you weep and mourn: Its fleeting splendor was a fleeting joy. Less grace, less wealth, all things that most annoy Last longer. Death goes slow to the forlorn. (G 209; T 73-31) A little longer must I sleep and pause To make a gracious thing even my grave: A nobler beauty heaven cannot have That for a sculptor could as sweetly pose. (G 210; T 73-32) Once open, my sweet eyes to me were dear: Now closed forever, whom do they make sigh? Beauty no more, forever fallen by, But only death, if all its pride is here.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 211; T 73-33) Se, vivo al mondo, d’alcun vita fui che gli è qui terra or la bellezza mia, mort’è non sol, ma crudel gelosia c’alcun per me non mora innanzi a lui.

Cose goffe! La fonte è secha; bisognia aspectar, che piova, e voi avete troppa frecta.

(G 212; T 73-34) Perc’all’altru’ ferir non ave’ pari col suo bel volto il Braccio che qui serro,morte vel tolse e fecel, s’io non erro, perc’a lei ancider toccava i men chiari. (G 213; T 73-35) Sepulto è qui quel Braccio, che Dio volse corregger col suo volto la natura; ma perché perso è ’l ben, c’altri non cura, lo mostrò al mondo e presto sel ritolse. (G 214; T 73-36) Era la vita vostra il suo splendore: di Cecchin Bracci, che qui morto giace. Chi nol vide nol perde e vive in pace: la vita perde chi ’l vide e non muore. La sepultura parla a chi legge questi versi. Cose goffe; ma a voler, ch’ i’ ne facci mille, è forza che ci sia d’ogni cosa. (G 215; T 73-37) A la terra la terra e l’alma al cielo qui reso ha morte; a chi morto ancor m’ama ha dato in guardia mie bellezza e fama, ch’etterni in pietra il mie terrestre velo. (G 216; T 73-38) Sopra il deposito. Qui serro il Braccio e suo beltà divina, e come l’alma al corpo è forma e vita, è quello a me dell’opra alta e gradita; c’un bel coltello insegna tal vagina.



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(G 211; T 73-33) If, when alive, I quenched somebody’s thirst, Now that my beauty has been hidden here, He must be gnawed by jealousy and fear That, ah, somebody else may reach me first. Nonsense! The fountain is dry; we must wait for new rain, but you are much in a hurry. (G 212; T 73-34) In wounding with his eyes he had no equal – The Braccio I now keep beneath my laws. Death wanted him because, I guess, she was Weary of killing but the less bright sequel. (G 213; T 73-35) Dead is that Braccio with whose face God planned To implement all his created things; But as no good untreasured treasure brings, God showed him and soon took him from this land. (G 214; T 73-36) His splendor was our very life indeed – Yes, Cecchin Bracci’s, who is buried here. All those who never met him, should not fear; But those who saw him, and still live, are dead. Here the grave speaks to him who reads these lines. Nonsense! But, since you expect me to write a thousand of these epitaphs, I must make everything fit in. (G 215; T 73-37) Death gave earth back to earth, the soul to God, And to the one who loves me more as dead The loving task to keep my beauty, spread My fame, through stone reminding as I stood. (G 216; T 73-38) Over the Grave. I keep the Braccio and his beauty’s life, And as the soul gives to the body light, His very body is all art’s delight: A precious sheath bespeaks a precious knife.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 217; T 73-39) S’avvien come fenice mai rinnuovi qui ’l bel volto de’ Bracci di più stima, fie ben che ’l ben chi nol conosce prima per alcun tempo il perda e po’ ’l ritruovi. (G 218; T 73-40) Col sol de’ Bracci il sol della natura, per sempre estinto, qui lo chiudo e serro: morte l’ancise senza spada o ferro, c’un fior di verno picciol vento il fura.

Pel pane inficato. (G 219; T 73-41) Socto la testa che parli. I’ fui de’ Bracci, e qui mie vita è morte. Sendo oggi ’l ciel dalla terra diviso, toccando i’ sol del mondo al paradiso, anzi per sempre serri le suo porte. A rivederci quest’ altro San Martino, se non piove. (G 220; T 73-42) Deposto ha qui Cecchin sì nobil salma per morte, che ’l sol ma’ simil non vide. Roma ne piange, e ’l ciel si gloria e ride, che scarca del mortal si gode l’alma. (G 221; T 73-43) Qui giace il Braccio, e men non si desìa sepulcro al corpo, a l’alma il sacro ufizio. Se più che vivo, morto ha degno ospizio in terra e ’n ciel, morte gli è dolce e pia. (G 222; T 73-44) Qui stese il Braccio e colse acerbo il frutto morte, anz’il fior, c’a quindici anni cede. Sol questo sasso il gode che ’l possiede, e ’l resto po’ del mondo il piange tutto. (G 223; T 73-45) I’ fu’ Cecchin mortale e or son divo:



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(G 217; T 73-39) If, like a phoenix, Bracci’s face should gain A greater worth than it possessed before, Let those who did not know him, first ignore How once he looked, and find him here again. (G 218; T 73-40) With Bracci’s sun the sun of nature set, Which in this tomb forever I conceal. Death killed him with no sword and with no steel: A breath can kill a wintry floweret. This, for the bread with figs. (G 219; T 73-41) Under the Head That May Speak. To me, a Bracci, death is life’s true lot. Should heaven sever all its links with earth, And I alone in paradise have birth, Oh let it keep its doors forever shut! You must wait till the next Saint Martin’s feast day, unless it rain. (G 220; T 73-42) Cecchìn has laid, right here, so fair a glory, Through death, as never was beneath the sun. Rome is in tears; above, great songs are sung, For now a spirit, free, is no more sorry. (G 221; T 73-43) Here lies the Braccio: not a less sweet hymn For his soul, nor a less fair stone on his grave! If he, as dead, so fair a home can have Here and above, death is a joy to him. (G 222; T 73-44) Here death has laid an “Arm” and picked a fruit, – Rather, a bud of only fifteen years. Now, having it, this tomb enjoys it: tears, All tears are shed by us, so destitute. (G 223; T 73-45) I am Cecchìn, once mortal, now divine.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo poco ebbi ’l mondo e per sempre il ciel godo. Di sì bel cambio e di morte mi lodo, che molti morti, e me partorì vivo.

Perche la poesia stanocte è stata in calma, vi mando quactro berlingozzi pe tre berriquocoli del cacastechi; e a voi mi rachomando.

Vostro Michelagniolo al Macel de Corni. (G 224; T 73-46) Chiusi ha qui gli occhi e ’l corpo, e l’alma sciolta di Cecchin Bracci morte, e la partita fu ’nanz’ al tempo per cangiar suo vita a quella c’a molt’anni spesso è tolta. (G 225; T 73-47) I’ fu’ de’ Bracci, e qui dell’alma privo per esser da beltà fatt’ossa e terra: prego il sasso non s’apra, che mi serra, per restar bello in chi m’amò già vivo. (G 226; T 73-48) Che l’alma viva, i’ che qui morto sono or ne son certo e che, vivo, ero morto. I’ fu’ de’ Bracci, e se ’l tempo ebbi corto, chi manco vive più speri perdono. (G 227; T 73-49) Ripreso ha ’l divin Braccio il suo bel velo: non è più qui, c’anz’al gran dì l’ha tolto pietà di terra; che s’allor sepolto fussi, lu’ sol sarie degno del cielo. (G 228; T 73-50) Se ’l mondo il corpo, e l’alma il ciel ne presta per lungo tempo, il morto qui de’ Bracci qual salute fie mai che ’l soddisfacci? Di tanti anni e beltà creditor resta. Per baia e non pel numero. (G 229; T 109-23) Occhi mie, siate certi



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I had the world an hour, I have God’s face Forever. For such change, should I not praise Death that made many dark, makes me outshine? Since poetry tonight has been idle, I am sending you four unpolished quatrains to balance the three, more appealing, sent you by Messer Constipated. Greetings.

Yours Michelagnolo from “Slaughterhouse of the Crows.” (G 224; T 73-46) Here death has sealed sweet Cecchin Bracci’s eyes, And loosed his soul. His glad departure came When he, unmarred by sin, untouched by blame, Could easily go where old age cannot rise. (G 225; T 73-47) I was a Bracci – beauty to adore – And now am only bones and dust and sham. O let this stone not show me as I am, So that to one I be just as before. (G 226; T 73-48) Now dead, I know my spirit lives in heaven, And that, while still alive, I was but dead. I was a Bracci and my youth is fled, But who lives shorter, sooner is forgiven. (G 227; T 73-49) The divine “Arm” has taken his fair dross: It is not here. Before the day of doom God’s mercy took him from this earthly tomb, To save him, on that day, from possible loss. (G 228; T 73-50) If the world lent him but the flesh, and God A soul forever, what delight, what good, Can satisfy him now? Our gratitude For all his beauty on an earth untrod. In jest, and not to close our account. (G 229; T 109-23) Oh, rest assured, my eyes,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo che ’l tempo passa e l’ora s’avvicina, c’a le lacrime triste il passo serra. Pietà vi tenga aperti, mentre la mie divina donna si degna d’abitare in terra. Se grazia il ciel disserra, com’a’ beati suole, questo mie vivo sole se lassù torna e partesi da noi, che cosa arete qui da veder poi? (G 230; T 109-46) Perché tuo gran bellezze al mondo sièno in donna più cortese e manco dura, prego se ne ripigli la natura tutte quelle c’ognor ti vengon meno, e serbi a riformar del tuo sereno e divin volto una gentil figura del ciel, e sia d’amor perpetua cura rifarne un cor di grazia e pietà pieno. E serbi poi i mie sospiri ancora, e le lacrime sparte insieme accoglia e doni a chi quella ami un’altra volta. Forse a pietà chi nascerà in quell’ora la moverà co’ la mie propia doglia, né fie persa la grazia c’or m’è tolta. (G 231; T 109-47) Non è più tempo, Amor, che ’l cor m’infiammi, né che beltà mortal più goda o tema: giunta è già l’ora strema che ’l tempo perso, a chi men n’ha, più duole. Quante ’l tuo braccio dammi, morte i gran colpi scema, e’ sua accresce più che far non suole. Gl’ingegni e le parole, da te di foco a mio mal pro passati, in acqua son conversi; e Die ’l voglia c’or versi con essa insieme tutti e’ mie peccati.



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That time is flying and that hour is near, Which brings an end to every human tear. For your own sake, be open, While my sweet lady deigns to dwell still here. If divine grace should take This living sun to heaven – and it will – When she will be above, What can the earth still have for you to love?

(G 230; T 109-46) So that your beauty to the world remain In spite of time that gives and steals away, Nature takes back your loss of every day, And safely stores and watches her new gain; And time will come when, doing what she may, With utmost care and pride, she will obtain, With what was yours, another lady again, Whose face prolongs your paradisal ray. Oh, then, may heaven keep my sighing, too, And save the tears I shed throughout my life, And give them to the one who shall love that. She will, perhaps, be kind to him, in view Of all my sorrows and unhappy strife, And he will have the grace I did not get. (G 231; T 109-47) Love, it is time you burned my heart no more, And I no longer feared, Or loved, a woman’s beauty that must die. The sad last hour is near When waste of time is most Displeasing to the one who wasted most. Death lessens all your blows, and makes its spears Far stronger. Words and thoughts, which you had turned To wrong, now death is turning into tears. Would that my sins were liquefied through them!

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 232; T 109-83) Non altrimenti contro a sé cammina ch’i’ mi facci alla morte, chi è da giusta corte tirato là dove l’alma il cor lassa; tal m’è morte vicina, salvo più lento el mie resto trapassa. Né per questo mi lassa Amor viver un’ora fra duo perigli, ond’io mi dormo e veglio: la speme umile e bassa nell’un forte m’accora, e l’altro parte m’arde, stanco e veglio. Né so il men danno o ’l meglio: ma pur più temo, Amor, che co’ tuo sguardi più presto ancide quante vien più tardi.

(G 233; T 109-86) Se da’ prim’anni aperto un lento e poco ardor distrugge in breve un verde core, che farà, chiuso po’ da l’ultim’ore, d’un più volte arso un insaziabil foco? Se ’l corso di più tempo dà men loco a la vita, a le forze e al valore, che farà a quel che per natura muore l’incendio arroto d’amoroso gioco? Farà quel che di me s’aspetta farsi: cenere al vento sì pietoso e fero, c’a’ fastidiosi vermi il corpo furi. Se, verde, in picciol foco i’ piansi e arsi, che, più secco ora in un sì grande, spero che l’alma al corpo lungo tempo duri? (G 234; T 96) Tanto non è, quante da te non viene, agli occhi specchio, a che ’l cor lasso cede; che s’altra beltà vede, gli è morte, donna, se te non somiglia, qual vetro che non bene



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(G 232; T 109-83) I trudge to meet my death Like one who, doomed to die, Is led to the sad place Whence soon his soul will fly From his heart, stopped. And this is true of me, But for the body moving slower there. Yet Love, for my own sake, Has not yet granted me a moment’s rest, Keeping me still between two dangers, stunned And trembling, half-asleep and half-awake: My last, low hope torments me on one hand, And, on the other, still my heart is burning, Though old and weary. Oh, If I could understand Which of the two is better, which is worse! But, Love, I dread you more, for with your eyes You kill more quickly, who already dies. (G 233; T 109-86) If a young heart is easily controlled By but a small, slow flame in life’s green age, How can a heart, love-tried, but weak and old, Escape, in its last hours, love’s cruel rage? If longer time makes one much less unfold One’s hope and strength and worth, can Love’s outrage Now save and spare one who needs not be told That death is near, and life at its last stage? Let Love take quickly what of me is left – Ash for the cruel and merciful wind To steal away from death’s exacting worm. If, young, in a small fire I burned and wept, Now that the flame is high, and dry the rind, How can I last in such a fatal storm? (G 234; T 96)145 Lady, whatever does not come from you Not only is not beautiful to me, But any alien beauty I may see To me is death, when not resembling yours: Imperfect glass obscures

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo senz’altra scorza ogni su’ obbietto piglia. Esempro e maraviglia ben fie a chi si dispera della tuo grazia al suo ’nfelice stato, s’e’ begli occhi e le ciglia con la tuo pietà vera volgi a far me sì tardi ancor beato: a la miseria nato, s’al fier destin preval grazia e ventura, da te fie vinto il cielo e la natura. (G 235; T 135) Un uomo in una donna, anzi uno dio per la sua bocca parla, ond’io per ascoltarla son fatto tal, che ma’ più sarò mio. I’ credo ben, po’ ch’io a me da lei fu’ tolto, fuor di me stesso aver di me pietate; sì sopra ’l van desio mi sprona il suo bel volto, ch’i’ veggio morte in ogni altra beltate. O donna che passate per acqua e foco l’alme a’ lieti giorni, deh, fate c’a me stesso più non torni. (G 236; T 134) Se ben concetto ha la divina parte il volto e gli atti d’alcun, po’ di quello doppio valor con breve e vil modello dà vita a’ sassi, e non è forza d’arte. Né altrimenti in più rustiche carte, anz’una pronta man prenda ’l pennello, fra ’ dotti ingegni il più accorto e bello pruova e rivede, e suo storie comparte. Simil di me model di poca istima mie parto fu, per cosa alta e perfetta da voi rinascer po’, donna alta e degna. Se ’l poco accresce, e ’l mie superchio lima vostra mercé, qual penitenzia aspetta mie fiero ardor, se mi gastiga e ’nsegna?



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The object that it mirrors. It would be The highest of all wonders if to me, Unworthy of your grace, your eyes should show Some pity, and transform my misery, And turn to happiness an old man’s woe. Born to sorrow, I know That, if your grace and love prevail on fate, Nature and heaven shall capitulate.

(G 235; T 135)146 Through the mouth of a woman speaks a god: This is the reason why, Listening to her, I Have such become as to be mine no more. Since she has stolen me From what I was before, As from without, I pity now myself. So the sweet beauty of her face can spur My vain desire to soar, That in an alien beauty I see death. O lady, you who bid all spirits journey To happy days through water and through flame, To my own self let me never return. (G 236; T 134)147 After the divine part has well conceived Man’s face and gesture, soon both mind and hand, With a cheap model, first, at their command, Give life to stone, but this is not achieved By skill. In painting, too, this is perceived: Only after the intellect has planned The best and highest, can the ready hand Take up the brush and try all things received. It is the same with me: born a cheap, gross Model, O high, pure Lady, through your glow And work, a pure, high life I, too, can reach. If your grace fills my void, files off my dross, Through what new ache shall my strong ardor go If still your grace can punish and can teach?

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 237; T 85) Molto diletta al gusto intero e sano l’opra della prim’arte, che n’assembra i volti e gli atti, e con più vive membra, di cera o terra o pietra un corp’ umano. Se po’ ’l tempo ingiurioso, aspro e villano la rompe o storce o del tutto dismembra, la beltà che prim’era si rimembra, e serba a miglior loco il piacer vano. (G 238; T 86) Non è non degna l’alma che n’attende etterna vita, in cui si posa e quieta, per arricchir dell’unica moneta che ’l ciel ne stampa, e qui natura spende. (G 239; T 109-92) Com’esser, donna, può quel c’alcun vede per lunga sperïenza, che più dura l’immagin viva in pietra alpestra e dura che ’l suo fattor, che gli anni in cener riede? La causa a l’effetto inclina e cede, onde dall’arte è vinta la natura. I’ ’l so, che ’l pruovo in la bella scultura, c’all’opra il tempo e morte non tien fede. Dunche, posso ambo noi dar lunga vita in qual sie modo, o di colore o sasso, di noi sembrando l’uno e l’altro volto; sì che mill’anni dopo la partita, quante voi bella fusti e quant’io lasso si veggia, e com’amarvi i’ non fu’ stolto. (G 240; T 109-45) Sol d’una pietra viva l’arte vuol che qui viva al par degli anni il volto di costei. Che dovria il ciel di lei, sendo mie questa, e quella suo fattura, non già mortal, ma diva, non solo agli occhi mei? E pur si parte e picciol tempo dura. Dal lato destro è zoppa suo ventura,



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(G 237; T 85)148 Sculpture, the first of arts, delights a taste Still strong and sound: each act, each limb, each bone Are given life and, lo, man’s body is raised, Breathing, alive, in wax or clay or stone. But oh, if time’s inclement rage should waste, Or maim, the statue that man builds alone, Its beauty still remains, and can be traced Back to the source that claims it as its own. (G 238; T 86)149 Seeking eternal life wherein to rest, Our soul is worthy of that peace, if rich Simply and only with that money, which Heaven has coined and we must here invest. (G 239; T 109-92) Lady, through long experience we see That, although carved in stone, beauty can last Much longer than the sculptor, whose years fast Fall into ash – how can this ever be? The cause is won by the effect: so we Know well how nature is by art outcast. Believe me, what I sculpted in the past Is not afraid of time and death, like me. Then a long life to both of us I’ll give In color or in stone, as you prefer, Keeping both faces in their present light. A thousand years, and more, after we leave, They will see how most beautiful you were And how in loving you I was most right. (G 240; T 109-45)150 Out of a living stone Art wants on earth my lady’s face to live All years. What should God say, If I can claim but this, and He made her, Divine, not mortal, for all eyes to see? And yet it fades – forever cannot be. Oh, luck is lame, if stone Can live, and she must die! Who will avenge her, then? Nature alone,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo s’un sasso resta e pur lei morte affretta. Chi ne farà vendetta? Natura sol, se de’ suo nati sola l’opra qui dura, e la suo ’l tempo invola. (G 241; T 109-50) Negli anni molti e nelle molte pruove, cercando, il saggio al buon concetto arriva d’un’immagine viva, vicino a morte, in pietra alpestra e dura; c’all’alte cose nuove tardi si viene, e poco poi si dura. Similmente natura, di tempo in tempo, d’uno in altro volto, s’al sommo, errando, di bellezza è giunta nel tuo divino, è vecchia, e de’ perire: onde la tema, molto con la beltà congiunta, di stranio cibo pasce il gran desire; né so pensar né dire qual nuoca o giovi più, visto ’l tuo ’spetto, o ’l fin dell’universo o ’l gran diletto. (G 242; T 109-53) S’egli è che ’n dura pietra alcun somigli talor l’immagin d’ogni altri a se stesso, squalido e smorto spesso il fo, com’i’ son fatto da costei. E par ch’esempro pigli ognor da me, ch’i’ penso di far lei. Ben la pietra potrei, per l’aspra suo durezza, in ch’io l’esempro, dir c’a lei s’assembra; del resto non saprei, mentre mi strugge e sprezza, altro sculpir che le mie afflitte membra. Ma se l’arte rimembra agli anni la beltà per durare ella, farà me lieto, ond’io le’ farò bella. (G 243; T 126) Ognor che l’idol mio si rappresenta



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If the work of its children can survive, While its own work is soon erased by time.

(G 241; T 109-50) Patiently trying through long years of strife, Only when close to death, Can an artist succeed in giving life, On a hard marble block, to that sweet face Whose beauty has been living in his mind; For one can only find Beauty when it is late, and one is dying. So, even nature, trying, From age to age, from face to other face, To reach the best of beauty in your eyes, Must now be old, like me, and close to death. That is why terror, mixed with beauty, feeds So strangely my desire: I cannot think, or tell, what hurts or helps Me more, after I gaze upon your face, – The end of nature or this happiness. (G 242; T 109-53)151 If it is true, one often sculpts in stone The image of some people like one’s own, I sculpt this woman’s face As pale as death, – just what she made of me. She does not have to pose – I have with me What I want her to be. The very stone I use Reminds me of her hardness; for the rest, While she does still refuse, And still is so unkind, I copy my own woes, and sculpt her, best. But since man’s art alone makes beauty live, If she desires to live beyond all time, Tell her to give me happiness, and I Shall make her living beauty never die. (G 243; T 126) Whenever my bright idol comes to cheer

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The glances of my heart, both weak and strong, To stand between them, death comes soon along, And chases it away with its new fear. As if no greater joy were ever near, My soul transforms to happiness this wrong: Unvanquished Love appears with all his throng Of reasons sharp as weapons, and I hear: ”Not to be born again to sorrow, once You only die. How glad he shall have been, Who in his heart has me before he dies! Man’s kindled love, whence, free, the spirit runs, As to a magnet goes the flame akin, Will make the soul, like gold fire-cleansed, arise.” (G 244; T 127)152 If sorrow, as they say, can make a face More beautiful, to me, Who have now lost, and mourn, her gentle beauty, My new unhappiness gives life and grace: For it is only bitter misery That sweet content my human passion fancies. Fortune can never boast Of dragging into ruin from a height One who had never wings for any flight. Oh, how benign and kind Is bare and lonely poverty to me, How sweet a discipline, how new a spur! To one who wanders toward a sepulcher, It’s better to lose much in love or battle Than to win very little. (G 245; T 129) Love, if my lady’s eyes were always mine, And never had she turned Her glance away from me, how could I burn Much more for her, and how could you devise Your greater triumph on me? From afar You bum me with her eyes, And not in small degree. Only the player Who loses, makes the most of his new game, And not the one who wins, for joy can tame One’s interest and make it low and rare.

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(G 246; T 109-7) Te sola del mie mal contenta veggio, né d’altro ti richieggio amarti tanto; non è la pace tua senza il mio pianto, e la mia morte a te non è ’l mie peggio. Che s’io colmo e pareggio il cor di doglia alla tua voglia altera, per fuggir questa vita, qual dispietata aita m’ancide e strazia e non vuol poi ch’io pera? Perché ’l morir è corto al lungo andar di tua crudeltà fera. Ma chi patisce a torto non men pietà che gran iustizia spera. Così l’alma sincera serve e sopporta e, quando che sia poi, spera non quel che puoi: ché ’l premio del martir non è tra noi. (T 109-16) Sopra la Notte del Buonarroto, di Giovanni Strozzi. La Notte, che tu vedi in sì dolci atti dormir, fu da un Angelo scolpita in questo sasso, e perché dorme, ha vita. destala, se nol credi, et parleratti.

(G 247; T 109-16) Risposta del Buonarroto. Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso, mentre che ’l danno e la vergogna dura; non veder, non sentir m’è gran ventura; però non mi destar, deh, parla basso.



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One who is hungry knows Sweet hope for food, which ends and blooms no more In sweetness after meal. Oh, of my lady let me this reveal: Should her abundance yield to my great thirst, My deathless longing would be more athirst. (G 246; T 109-7)153 You are the only one who scorns my tears, And yet one thing I only ask; to love you. You never can have peace without my tears, And, if I die, my death will not yet move you. But when I try to prove to you That my desire is equal to your pride, And it is time I died, What do you do to keep me still alive? Death would not please at all Your boundless cruelty. Yet, he who suffered long and innocently Is sure of pity and of justice, too. Therefore, my soul will suffer still for you, And hopes to get at last – Oh, not the happiness that you could give – But peace forever. From this world can come No great reward to human martyrdom. (T 109-16)154 Lines by Giovanni Strozzi on the “Night” of Buonarroto. An Angel sculpted in this marble block The Night you now see sleeping sweet and deep: She is, therefore, alive, being asleep. Don’t you believe me? Wake her up: she’ll talk.

(G 247; T 109-17)155 Answer of Buonarroto. While all about are harm and shame and woe, How good to sleep and be but marble block! Not to see, not to hear is my great luck; So do not rouse me then, but please, speak low.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 248; T 109-37) Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi che visto ebbe l’inferno giusto e ’l pio ritornò vivo a contemplare Dio, per dar di tutto il vero lume a noi. Lucente stella, che co’ raggi suoi fe’ chiaro a torto el nido ove nacq’io, né sare’ ’l premio tutto ’l mondo rio; tu sol, che la creasti, esser quel puoi. Di Dante dico, che mal conosciute fur l’opre suo da quel popolo ingrato che solo a’ iusti manca di salute. Fuss’io pur lui! c’a tal fortuna nato, per l’aspro esilio suo, co’ la virtute, dare’ del mondo il più felice stato. (G 249; T 109-48) – Per molti, donna, anzi per mille amanti creata fusti, e d’angelica forma; or par che ’n ciel si dorma, s’un sol s’appropia quel ch’è dato a tanti. Ritorna a’ nostri pianti il sol degli occhi tuo, che par che schivi chi del suo dono in tal miseria è nato. – Deh, non turbate i vostri desir santi, ché chi di me par che vi spogli e privi, col gran timor non gode il gran peccato; ché degli amanti è men felice stato quello, ove ’l gran desir gran copia affrena, c’una miseria di speranza piena.

(G 250; T 109-49) Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire, ché troppo agli orbi il suo splendor s’accese; biasmar si può più ’l popol che l’offese, c’al suo men pregio ogni maggior salire. Questo discese a’ merti del fallire per l’util nostro, e poi a Dio ascese;



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(G 248; T 109-37)156 From heaven he came and saw with mortal eyes The hell that stays, and that which shall not last, Then back he went to God in paradise To give us glimpses of His splendor vast. A lucent star, he shone above the vice Of that lost land which to me, too, was nest; To him man’s evil earth can be no prize: God, You, who made him, can reward him best. Dante I mean, whose works did not elate That people thankless and uncivilized Who only to the just gives doom and hate. Yet would that I were he! To be despised, Outcast, but born as he – for such a fate I would give up the world with all things prized. (G 249; T 109-48)157 “Lady, for many – for a thousand lovers, You were created so divine and fair. Now God seems unaware Of you, if he allows but one to take What all, indeed, must share. The beauty of your eyes becomes our tears, For, ah, it seems to avoid only those Who, far away, are born in endless woes.” “Oh, do not cloud with tears your constant longing, For he who seems to steal away from you The beauty of my eyes, Must pay, for what he has, a price of fear. Lovers who fully enjoy Are not as happy as all those who, still Away from joy, can fill Their hearts with hope of being loved at last.” (G 250; T 109-49)158 It’s hard to say of him all that we should, For the most blind could see his light immense. It’s easier to blame those who did offense, Than for the great to reach his humblest mood. To give us light, he went where lack of good Is crushed, then climbed to God in soul and sense:

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo e le porte, che ’l ciel non gli contese, la patria chiuse al suo giusto desire. Ingrata, dico, e della suo fortuna a suo danno nutrice; ond’è ben segno c’a’ più perfetti abonda di più guai. Fra mille altre ragion sol ha quest’una: se par non ebbe il suo exilio indegno, simil uom né maggior non nacque mai. (G 251; T 74) Nel dolce d’una immensa cortesia, dell’onor, della vita alcuna offesa s’asconde e cela spesso, e tanto pesa che fa men cara la salute mia. Chi gli omer’ altru’ ’mpenna e po’ tra via a lungo andar la rete occulta ha tesa, l’ardente carità d’amore accesa là più l’ammorza ov’arder più desia. Però, Luigi mio, tenete chiara la prima grazia, ond’io la vita porto, che non si turbi per tempesta o vento. L’isdegno ogni mercé vincere impara, e s’i’ son ben del vero amico accorto, mille piacer non vaglion un tormento. (G 252; T 109-71-72) Perch’è troppo molesta, ancor che dolce sia, quella mercé che l’alma legar suole, mie libertà di questa vostr’alta cortesia più che d’un furto si lamenta e duole. E com’occhio nel sole disgrega suo virtù ch’esser dovrebbe di maggior luce, s’a veder ne sprona, così ’l desir non vuole zoppa la grazia in me, che da vo’ crebbe. Ché ’l poco al troppo spesso s’abbandona, né questo a quel perdona: c’amor vuol sol gli amici, onde son rari



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God’s home was open to his innocence, But, ah, on earth, he found but servitude. Ungrateful land, I know what is your fate – To run to your own ruin, and to strike Your worthy children with your evil scorn. About this one, oh let me only state That, just as his exile knew not the like, So never was a greater person born. (G 251; T 74)159 Often in boundless kindness lies concealed A blow, an insult to one’s honored name, And this has hurt me so, that now I blame Myself for having been revived and healed. Who wants a friend to fly, then in a field Conceals a trap to halt his flying game, He may forever crush the ardent flame Which held a friendship beautifully sealed. So, my Luigi, always keep sincere That bond which makes me owe my life to you, And let no storm reveal a harsh tomorrow. Disdain makes one forget a heart once dear And – if I know which friend is false, which true – A thousand pleasures are not worth one sorrow. (G 252; T 109-71-72)160 Because that gratitude which binds the soul, Although too dear and sweet, Can hurt us with deceit, My freedom now complains About your kindness, calling it a theft. As man’s eye, looking at the sun, is left With no more power of its own (it should, Instead, attain new light), So even my desire cannot afford Losing, or lessening, the grace that grew Out of your beauty and you. The little must surrender to the much, Nor can this pardon that; Love finds his friends among all those who share

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(G 253; T 109-78) S’i’ fussi stato ne’ prim’anni accorto del fuoco, allor di fuor, che m’arde or drento, per men mal, non che spento, ma privo are’ dell’alma il debil core e del colpo, or ch’è morto; ma sol n’ha colpa il nostro prim’errore. Alma infelice, se nelle prim’ore alcun s’è mal difeso, nell’ultim’ arde e muore del primo foco acceso: ché chi non può non esser arso e preso nell’età verde, c’or c’è lume e specchio, men foco assai ’l distrugge stanco e vecchio. (G 254; T 109-79) Donn’, a me vecchio e grave, ov’io torno e rientro e come a peso il centro, che fuor di quel riposo alcun non have, il ciel porge le chiave. Amor le volge e gira e apre a’ iusti il petto di costei; le voglie inique e prave mi vieta, e là mi tira, già stanco e vil, fra ’ rari e semidei. Grazie vengon da lei strane e dolce e d’un certo valore, che per sé vive chiunche per le’ muore.

(G 255; T 109-93) Mentre i begli occhi giri, donna, ver’ me da presso, tanto veggio me stesso in lor, quante ne’ mie te stessa miri. Dagli anni e da’ martiri qual io son, quegli a me rendono in tutto,



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His virtue and his fate – And friends, therefore, are rare. (G 253; T 109-78)161 Had I been wise in my first years to shun That outward flame which now consumes my heart, It would have been a lesser anguish, then, To wrench my heart away, Than to die now of that first cruel pain. O tragedy of youth! O sad mistake! O my poor soul, to make An error at life’s dawn means to die twice When sunset comes, for those who made no error In their green age, which is life’s light and mirror, Are safe from fire when they are old and weary.

(G 254; T 109-79)162 Lady, to me, weary and age-oppressed, Now heaven hands the keys, So that I may re-enter, As every object is drawn to its center, Where I may pause and rest. Love turns them sweetly, opening your heart To all who love in innocence of thought. Forbidding all desire that is not pure, He lifts me, old and vile, To the grace of your smile Among the blessed and the demigods. So wonderful, and sweet, and so sublime Is your reward, my lady, That, if one dies for you, One lives for the first time. (G 255; T 109-93) When your sweet eyes you turn Toward me, sweet lady, I Can see myself in them, As you, yourself, in mine. Yours mirror all my age and all my pain, Mine make you see how luminous a star

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo e ’ mie lor te più che lucente stella. Ben par che ’l ciel s’adiri che ’n sì begli occhi i’ mi veggia sì brutto, e ne’ mie brutti ti veggia sì bella; né men crudele e fella dentro è ragion, c’al core per lor mi passi, e quella de’ tuo mi serri fore. Perché ’l tuo gran valore d’ogni men grado accresce suo durezza, c’amor vuol pari stato e giovanezza.

(G 256; T 121) S’alcuna parte in donna è che sie bella, benché l’altre sien brutte, debb’io amarle tutte pel gran piacer ch’i’ prendo sol di quella? La parte che s’appella, mentre il gioir n’attrista, a la ragion, pur vuole che l’innocente error si scusi e ami. Amor, che mi favella della noiosa vista, com’irato dir suole che nel suo regno non s’attenda o chiami. E ’l ciel pur vuol ch’i’ brami, a quel che spiace non sie pietà vana: ché l’uso agli occhi ogni malfatto sana. (G 257; T 97) Perché sì tardi e perché non più spesso con ferma fede quell’interno ardore che mi lieva di terra e porta ’l core dove per suo virtù non gli è concesso? Forse c’ogn’ intervallo n’è promesso da l’uno a l’altro tuo messo d’amore, perc’ogni raro ha più forz’e valore quant’è più desïato e meno appresso. La notte è l’intervallo, e ’l dì la luce: l’una m’agghiaccia ’l cor, l’altro l’infiamma d’amor, di fede e d’un celeste foco.



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On this dark earth you are. At this injustice heaven must be wrathful – That I should see myself So ugly in your eyes, so beautiful, And you, yourself so beautiful, in mine, So ugly. Reason, too, is harsh to me, Allowing you to be Deep in my heart, through these my very eyes, Not me in yours at all. This is because your worth and my low state Can never integrate: Love wants both grace and youth equally great. (G 256; T 121)163 If in a woman a part is beautiful, And the rest is not so, Should I love, for the bliss of that one part, Even what gives me woe? The thing that makes me joyful, While it can mar my full beatitude, Should tell each of my thoughts not to be rude, But to excuse and love with gentleness Even that guiltless lack. Love makes me see that hurting ugliness, Yet, angry, tells me not to be taken aback, For in his kingdom reason does not dwell. And heaven’s grace as well Reminds me to accept what hurts the eyes, For, looked at often, ugliness soon dies. (G 257; T 97) Why should it come so seldom, why so late, That inner flame which, held by burning trust, Lifts suddenly my heart from this vile dust To heaven, where it fails through its own fate? Perhaps, such a long time I had to wait For this new ardent wonder, for one must Realize what is rare is more august, And beauty long-desired is far more great. Night is the interval, and day is light: One freezes all my heart, the other warms it With love and faith and with immortal fire.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo ………… ………… ………… (G 258; T 109-104) Quantunche sie che la beltà divina qui manifesti il tuo bel volto umano, donna, il piacer lontano m’è corto sì, che del tuo non mi parto, c’a l’alma pellegrina gli è duro ogni altro sentiero erto o arto. Ond’ il tempo comparto: per gli occhi il giorno e per la notte il core, senza intervallo alcun c’al cielo aspiri. Sì ’l destinato parto mi ferm’al tuo splendore, c’alzar non lassa i mie ardenti desiri, s’altro non è che tiri la mente al ciel per grazia o per mercede: tardi ama il cor quel che l’occhio non vede. (G 259; T 109-101) Ben può talor col mie ’rdente desio salir la speme e non esser fallace, ché s’ogni nostro affetto al ciel dispiace, a che fin fatto arebbe il mondo Iddio? Qual più giusta cagion dell’amart’io è, che dar gloria a quella eterna pace onde pende il divin che di te piace, e c’ogni cor gentil fa casto e pio? Fallace speme ha sol l’amor che muore con la beltà, c’ogni momento scema, ond’è suggetta al variar d’un bel viso. Dolce è ben quella in un pudico core, che per cangiar di scorza o d’ora strema non manca, e qui caparra il paradiso. (G 260; T 91) Non è sempre di colpa aspra e mortale d’una immensa bellezza un fero ardore, se poi sì lascia liquefatto il core,



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………… ………… ………… (G 258; T 109-104)164 Though it is true, my lady, Your human face bespeaks On earth your divine beauty, more than this, My heart loves that, so far all heaven is. The pilgrim soul cannot Climb paths so rough and steep. So, I divide my day: your eyes I keep And watch in daylight, and I hold your heart Through the dark, frightening night, with not one pause For heaven. I was born Only for the sweet splendor of your eyes, And cannot sigh for any lesser light, Unless you show me God and paradise: The heart is slow to see beyond the eyes.

(G 259; T 109-101)165 At times my hope is able to ascend With my desire, and not be false at all; For, should all of our longings heaven appall, What would God’s world be for, or to what end? Is there a better reason than your call To love you, lord, and thus with song commend The eternal peace to which all of us tend, Which makes divine, like you, each loving soul? Only that love is false, and shows deceit, Which dies with beauty dying with each breath, For it is slave to two swift-changing eyes. But in an innocent heart that hope is sweet Which does not fail for age or even death And, while on earth, is sure of paradise. (G 260; T 91) Not always man’s unquenchable desire For lofty beauty is a thing to blame, If it can make him ready for a flame

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo che ’n breve il penetri un divino strale. Amore isveglia e desta e ’mpenna l’ale, né l’alto vol preschive al van furore; qual primo grado c’al suo creatore, di quel non sazia, l’alma ascende e sale. L’amor di quel ch’i’ parlo in alto aspira; donna è dissimil troppo; e mal conviensi arder di quella al cor saggio e verile. L’un tira al cielo, e l’altro in terra tira; nell’alma l’un, l’altr’abita ne’ sensi, e l’arco tira a cose basse e vile. (G 261; T 109-102) Se ’l troppo indugio ha più grazia e ventura che per tempo al desir pietà non suole, la mie, negli anni assai, m’affligge e duole, ché ’l gioir vecchio picciol tempo dura. Contrario ha ’l ciel, se di no’ sente o cura, arder nel tempo che ghiacciar si vuole, com’io per donna; onde mie triste e sole lacrime peso con l’età matura. Ma forse, ancor c’al fin del giorno sia, col sol già quasi oltr’a l’occaso spento, fra le tenebre folte e ’l freddo rezzo, s’amor c’infiamma solo a mezza via, né altrimenti è, s’io vecchio ardo drento, donna è che del mie fin farà ’l mie mezzo. (G 262; T 118) Amor, se tu se’ dio, non puo’ ciò che tu vuoi? Deh fa’ per me, se puoi, quel ch’i’ fare’ per te, s’Amor fuss’io. Sconviensi al gran desio d’alta beltà la speme, vie più l’effetto a chi è press’al morire. Pon nel tuo grado il mio: dolce gli fie chi ’l preme? Ché grazia per poc’or doppia ’l martire. Ben ti voglio ancor dire:



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That is divine and sets his heart afire. Love wakens us, and gives us wings for higher Heavens, ennobling our initial aim; Is the first step through which the soul, in shame And weariness, forgets the earth for its sire. The love I mean, my lady, goes to God, – Is not the one which never could enmesh So steadfast and so wise a heart as yours. One makes us soar, the other gives us mud; One lives in the soul, the other in the flesh – And only to things base this one allures. (G 261; T 109-102)166 If waiting longer finds more happiness Than to one’s longing a quick joy can give, Nothing can equal an old man’s distress, For at my age no bliss can last and live. If He still loves us, God cannot forgive Fire that burns in wintry wilderness, – My loving you; and so, alone, I grieve, Weighing my tears and years, sad, comfortless. Yet, though I am so close to the end of day, With the sun sunken half into the sea, Between the shadows and the dark midnight; If Love but kindles us at life’s half way, And I, so old, have still his flame in me, My lady is my means to reach God’s light. (G 262; T 118) Being a god, O Love, Can you not do according to your wish? Oh, do for me, I pray, What I would do for you, if I were Love. To one so close to death This hope for beauty, springing from desire, And – worse – for its effect, is shame and madness. Oh, hear my plea with gladness! Can anything that tortures turn to joy? A grace of but an hour Makes death a double sadness.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo che sarie morte, s’a’ miseri è dura, a chi muor giunto a l’alta suo ventura?

(G 263; T 122) La nuova beltà d’una mi sprona, sfrena e sferza; né sol passato è terza, ma nona e vespro, e prossim’è la sera. Mie parto e mie fortuna, l’un co’ la morte scherza, né l’altra dar mi può qui pace intera. I’ c’accordato m’era col capo bianco e co’ molt’anni insieme, già l’arra in man tene’ dell’altra vita, qual ne promette un ben contrito core. Più perde chi men teme nell’ultima partita, fidando sé nel suo propio valore contr’a l’usato ardore: s’a la memoria sol resta l’orecchio, non giova, senza grazia, l’esser vecchio. (G 264; T 109-103) Mandato. Come portato ho già più tempo in seno l’immagin, donna, del tuo volto impressa, or che morte s’appressa, con previlegio Amor ne stampi l’alma, che del carcer terreno felice sie ’l dipor suo grieve salma. Per procella o per calma con tal segno sicura, sie come croce contro a’ suo avversari; e donde in ciel ti rubò la natura ritorni, norma agli angeli alti e chiari, c’a rinnovar s’impari là sù pel mondo un spirto in carne involto, che dopo te gli resti il tuo bel volto.



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But let me ask you this: If, even to the wretched, Death is a cruel thing, will it be less To those who found their greatest happiness? (G 263; T 122)167 This new, singular beauty Excites me, spurs me, whips me; But my third hour is gone, and gone the ninth. Evening is nearing, and its shadow rips me. My birth is playing with my death, my fate Cannot give me full peace on this low earth. I had already reached a compromise With my white hair and with my many years, And I was fully sure of paradise And down I knelt and prayed with all my tears. But who no longer fears, He loses his last game, for he cannot Check, by himself, the fire of his past years. If memory retains, though far and dim, Only one flash of the past fiery storm, Even old age, without God’s grace, is warm.

(G 264; T 109-103)168 Envoy. I, who have borne for years, graved in my heart, The image of your face, – Now that my death is close, I only want the grace Of having it engraved within my soul, So that, serene and free, it may soon leave The prison of its body. Only thus, My lady, will my soul feel safe from harm, Bearing your image like a saving cross Through winds and storms and demons everywhere. I shall take it to heaven, Whence nature stole you on a happy day, And give it back to all the angels fair, So that they learn to make another face As beautiful as yours,

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(G 265; T 98) Per non s’avere a ripigliar da tanti quell’insieme beltà che più non era, in donna alta e sincera prestata fu sott’un candido velo, c’a riscuoter da quanti al mondo son, mal si rimborsa il cielo. Ora in un breve anelo, anzi in un punto, Iddio dal mondo poco accorto se l’ha ripresa, e tolta agli occhi nostri. Né metter può in oblio, benché ’l corpo sie morto, i suo dolci, leggiadri e sacri inchiostri. Crudel pietà, qui mostri, se quanto a questa il ciel prestava a’ brutti, s’or per morte il rivuol, morremo or tutti. (G 266; T 102) Qual meraviglia è, se prossim’al foco mi strussi e arsi, se or ch’egli è spento di fuor, m’affligge e mi consuma drento, e ’n cener mi riduce a poco a poco? Vedea ardendo sì lucente il loco onde pendea il mio greve tormento, che sol la vista mi facea contento, e morte e strazi m’eran festa e gioco. Ma po’ che del gran foco lo splendore che m’ardeva e nutriva, il ciel m’invola, un carbon resto acceso e ricoperto. E s’altre legne non mi porge amore che lievin fiamma, una favilla sola non fie di me, sì ’n cener mi converto. (G 267; T 81) I’ sto rinchiuso come la midolla da la sua scorza, qua pover e solo, come spirto legato in un’ampolla:



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And send it down on earth, as heaven’s grace, To keep the world aware Of how divine and beautiful you were. (G 265; T 98)169 Not to take beauty back from many sources, God lent it all to one, – a woman chaste And noble, who could bear it, more than any, All in her guiltless body, as she did. It would be base, indeed, Were God to be refunded by so many. Now heaven, with a sigh, Has taken all her beauty from the world, Still unaware of loss, and from my eye. But no one doubts that, though her body be No more in agony, Her sweet and holy verse will ever live. O death, I do believe That, had God given us what she alone Was destined to receive and profit by, In giving back to heaven we would die. (G 266; T 102) How strange it is! When I was near the flashes, I burned, and now that all of them are dead Outside, another dreadful flame, instead, Gnaws me within, and turns me into ashes. Ablaze, I used to see those fiery lashes – The source of all my torment and my dread – And loved them more, and soon was comforted, And death was not at all this thing that crushes. But now, alas, the splendor of that fire, Which used to nourish me, has gone to heaven, And I am but a dying coal, an ember. And oh, if Love should nevermore remember To bring new wood, there will soon be not even The least spark left; extinguished is the pyre. (G 267; T 81)170 I feel constrained and blocked as is the marrow Into its bone, right here, so poor and lonely, And as some spirit in a vial narrow.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo e la mia scura tomba è picciol volo, dov’è Aragn’ e mill’opre e lavoranti, e fan di lor filando fusaiuolo. D’intorn’a l’uscio ho mete di giganti, ché chi mangi’uva o ha presa medicina non vanno altrove a cacar tutti quanti. I’ ho ’mparato a conoscer l’orina e la cannella ond’esce, per quei fessi che ’nanzi dì mi chiamon la mattina. Gatti, carogne, canterelli o cessi, chi n’ha per masserizi’ o men vïaggio non vien a vicitarmi mai senz’essi. L’anima mia dal corpo ha tal vantaggio, che se stasat’ allentasse l’odore, seco non la terre’ ’l pan e ’l formaggio. La toss’ e ’l freddo il tien sol che non more; se la non esce per l’uscio di sotto, per bocca il fiato a pen’ uscir può fore. Dilombato, crepato, infranto e rotto son già per le fatiche, e l’osteria è morte, dov’io viv’ e mangio a scotto. La mia allegrezz’ è la maninconia, e ’l mio riposo son questi disagi: che chi cerca il malanno, Dio gliel dia. Chi mi vedess’ a la festa de’ Magi sarebbe buono; e più, se la mia casa vedessi qua fra sì ricchi palagi. Fiamma d’amor nel cor non m’è rimasa; se ’l maggior caccia sempre il minor duolo, di penne l’alma ho ben tarpata e rasa. Io tengo un calabron in un orciuolo, in un sacco di cuoio ossa e capresti, tre pilole di pece in un bocciuolo.



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And this grave-dungeon is so small, that only Arachne dwells with webs and all her clients, Each hardly finding room to spin so cunningly. Around the door I have mountains of giants: Those who eat grapes or take some medicine, They all come here to place their putrid viands. So I have learned to recognize the urine And its emitting pipes: those many holes Still rouse me with their morning overturing. Carcasses, cats, foul vessels, stinking bowls For fertilizer, or just laid right there, – These are the things that greet whoever calls. My soul would profit from my body, I swear, For, should it come right out and smell this stench, My bread and cheese it could no longer bear. My cough and cold, I gather, cannot quench it; But, if they do, it must escape through the rear, Since through the mouth my breath can hardly venture. Hernia, lumbago, lameness – oh so weary Am I from all my work. Death is an inn In which I live and eat my food in fear. My gladness is but sadness, my one kin, And my repose is discomfort and trouble: Who wants all this – let hell soon grab him in! If the Three Kings who traveled to the stable Should return, passing many a wealthy house, They would come, I am sure, to this my rubble. My long-dead heart – no flame of love can rouse; If a great sorrow makes a small one dull, My soul has lost its wings and cannot rise. I have a buzzing wasp within my skull, And in a leather sack keep nerves and bones, And three hard pills of pitch float in my gall.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Gli occhi di biffa macinati e pesti, i denti come tasti di stormento c’al moto lor la voce suoni e resti. La faccia mia ha forma di spavento; i panni da cacciar, senz’altro telo, dal seme senza pioggia i corbi al vento. Mi cova in un orecchio un ragnatelo, ne l’altro canta un grillo tutta notte; né dormo e russ’ al catarroso anelo. Amor, le muse e le fiorite grotte, mie scombiccheri, a’ cemboli, a’ cartocci, agli osti, a’ cessi, a’ chiassi son condotte. Che giova voler far tanti bambocci, se m’han condotto al fin, come colui che passò ’l mar e poi affogò ne’ mocci? L’arte pregiata, ov’alcun tempo fui di tant’opinïon, mi rec’a questo, povero, vecchio e servo in forz’altrui, ch’i’ son disfatto, s’i’ non muoio presto. (G 268; T 115) Perché l’età ne ’nvola il desir cieco e sordo, con la morte m’accordo, stanco e vicino all’ultima parola. L’alma che teme e cola quel che l’occhio non vede, come da cosa perigliosa e vaga, dal tuo bel volto, donna, m’allontana. Amor, c’al ver non cede, di nuovo il cor m’appaga di foco e speme; e non già cosa umana mi par, mi dice, amar ... …………



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My eyes are sand which has been ground of stones, My teeth are keys of some old instrument Which, as they move, make jarring sounds and drones. My face makes people scared and diffident; To save the seeds, my clothes, without a stick, Would scare away all black crows fraudulent. A spider, in one ear, has spun a thick Web; in the other sings a cricket all night; No sleep, no snore, but a catarrhous trick. All my love verses, all my drawings bright, Have gone to fold guitars, wrap meat for stews, And to embellish cesspools with their sight. To paint so many puppets – what’s the use, If it will make me finish like the one Who crossed the sea to drown in his own mucus? Art, which I once have honored, and has done Me honor for some time, gives me such boon: A poor old man who must serve everyone. Ah, I am finished, if I don’t die soon! (G 268; T 115)171 Since age has stolen away from the world My deaf and blind desire, Weary and close to my last word, I must Now come to terms with death. My soul, adoring, fearing What my eyes cannot sight, Takes me away, my lady, from your light As from an imminent, infinite danger. But Love, who to such truth is foe and stranger, Comforts and sates my heart With hope and flame again, and tells me still That, loving you, I love not earth … …………

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 269; T 116) Or d’un fier ghiaccio, or d’un ardente foco, or d’anni o guai, or di vergogna armato, l’avvenir nel passato specchio con trista e dolorosa speme; e ’l ben, per durar poco, sento non men che ’l mal m’affligge e preme. Alla buona, alla rie fortuna insieme, di me già stanche, ognor chieggio perdono: e veggio ben che della vita sono ventura e grazia l’ore brieve e corte, se la miseria medica la morte. (G 270; T 117) Tu mi da’ di quel c’ognor t’avanza e vuo’ da me le cose che non sono. (G 271; T 139) Di te con teco, Amor, molt’anni sono nutrito ho l’alma e, se non tutto, in parte il corpo ancora; e con mirabil arte con la speme il desir m’ha fatto buono. Or, lasso, alzo il pensier con l’alie e sprono me stesso in più sicura e nobil parte. Le tuo promesse indarno delle carte e del tuo onor, di che piango e ragiono, ………… (G 272; T 119) Tornami al tempo, allor che lenta e sciolta al cieco ardor m’era la briglia e ’l freno; rendimi il volto angelico e sereno onde fu seco ogni virtù sepolta, e ’ passi spessi e con fatica molta, che son sì lenti a chi è d’anni pieno; tornami l’acqua e ’l foco in mezzo ’l seno, se vuo’ di me saziarti un’altra volta. E s’egli è pur, Amor, che tu sol viva de’ dolci amari pianti de’ mortali, d’un vecchio stanco oma’ puo’ goder poco; ché l’alma, quasi giunta a l’altra riva,



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(G 269; T 116)172 Full, once, of cruel ice and burning flame, Now of anguish and age and infinite shame, I mirror, with a sad, disconsolate hope, My future in my past; And I feel that the good, which cannot last, Torments me just as all the evil does. But let me ask forgiveness Of both of them, for they must be as weary Of me, as I of them. On earth, I guess, The shortest life is far the luckiest, If death alone can cure unhappiness. (G 270; T 117)173 You give me only the superfluous, And yet expect of me what I have not. (G 271; T 139) Long have I been, O Love, beneath your eyes, Feeding my soul on you, and even, in part, My body; with a great, amazing art Longing and hope have made me good, not wise. Now, weary, with each thought I try to rise Above, to a much safer, nobler part. Your promises were vain, and, ah, my heart Now mourns your fame, my very work, and tries ………… (G 272; T 119)174 Give me the time when I had given rein To that blind ardor I cannot retrace, And give me back the pure, angelic face That on my virtue left a deadly stain. Give me my countless steps and my great pain, Now that my years have rendered slow my pace; Give me my tears, and set my heart ablaze, If on my life you want to feed again. O Love, if it is true that evermore You feed on all our tears, both sweet and bitter, My sad, old heart can hardly give you food. My soul, now almost on the other shore,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo fa scudo a’ tuo di più pietosi strali: e d’un legn’arso fa vil pruova il foco. (G 273; T 120) Se sempre è solo e un quel che sol muove il tutto per altezza e per traverso, non sempre a no’ si mostra per un verso, ma più e men quante suo grazia piove. A me d’un modo e d’altri in ogni altrove: più e men chiaro o più lucente e terso, secondo l’egritudin, che disperso ha l’intelletto a le divine pruove. Nel cor ch’è più capace più s’appiglia, se dir si può, ’l suo volto e ’l suo valore; e di quel fassi sol guida e lucerna. ………… ………… truova conforme a la suo parte interna. (G 274; T 123) Deh fammiti vedere in ogni loco! Se da mortal bellezza arder mi sento, appresso al tuo mi sarà foco ispento, e io nel tuo sarò, com’ero, in foco. Signor mie caro, i’ te sol chiamo e ’nvoco contr’a l’inutil mie cieco tormento: tu sol puo’ rinnovarmi fuora e drento le voglie e ’l senno e ’l valor lento e poco. Tu desti al tempo, Amor, quest’alma diva e ’n questa spoglia ancor fragil e stanca l’incarcerasti, e con fiero destino. Che poss’io altro che così non viva? Ogni ben senza te, Signor, mi manca; il cangiar sorte è sol poter divino. (G 275; T 125) Dagli alti monti e d’una gran ruina, ascoso e circunscritto d’un gran sasso, discesi a discoprirmi in questo basso, contr’a mie voglia, in tal lapedicina. Quand’el sol nacqui, e da chi il ciel destina, ………



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Shuns your fierce darts with arrows that are better: Your flame can burn no more this dead, burned wood. (G 273; T 120)175 Only one is the sun that comes to rouse Both width and depth of earth with its bright ray, Yet we grasp of its light both what we may And what its showering grace ever allows. Thus, the sun of my lady more endows With warmth and beauty those who less are prey To that disease that makes the eyes delay, And the mind tarry, toward God’s proofs and vows. The more capacious and serene, the more One’s heart can hold the splendor of her face, Which guides it as a beacon through the dark. ………… ………… That heart, by nature, answers to the spark. (G 274; T 123)176 O make me see you, Lord, in every place! If mortal beauty burns me with its flame, My fire is ember when at yours I aim, And in your love I shall be still ablaze. O dear my Lord, against my sad disgrace, Against my blindness I invoke your name: For you alone can make me new, and tame My longings, and uplift my mind so base. You gave to time this soul, which is divine, And in the weary flesh imprisoned it, Alas, to cruel fate and utmost woe. What shall I do, no more to die and pine? Without you. Lord, can come no benefit; But I can change, through you, both lot and blow. (G 275; T 125)177 From high mountains in ruinous debris, Hidden in stone and circumscribed by it, I fell and found myself in this low pit, And am a pebble now, unwillingly. Since the birth of the sun and God’s decree, …………

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 276; T 128) Passa per gli occhi al core in un momento qualunche obbietto di beltà lor sia, e per sì larga e sì capace via c’a mille non si chiude, non c’a cento, d’ogni età, d’ogni sesso; ond’io pavento, carco d’affanni, e più di gelosia; né fra sì vari volti so qual sia c’anzi morte mi die ’ntero contento. S’un ardente desir mortal bellezza ferma del tutto, non discese insieme dal ciel con l’alma; è dunche umana voglia. Ma se pass’oltre, Amor, tuo nome sprezza, c’altro die cerca; e di quel più non teme c’a lato vien contr’a sì bassa spoglia. (G 277; T 133) Se con lo stile o coi colori avete alla natura pareggiato l’arte, anzi a quella scemato il pregio in parte, che ’l bel di lei più bello a noi rendete, poi che con dotta man posto vi sete a più degno lavoro, a vergar carte, quel che vi manca, a lei di pregio in parte, nel dar vita ad altrui, tutta togliete. Che se secolo alcuno omai contese in far bell’opre, almen cedale, poi che convien c’al prescritto fine arrive. Or le memorie altrui, già spente, accese tornando, fate or che fien quelle e voi malgrado d’esse, etternalmente vive. (G 278; T 138) Chi non vuol delle foglie non ci venga di maggio. (G 279; T 141) La forza d’un bel viso a che mi sprona?



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(G 276; T 128) In just one instant beauty that I see Goes through my eyes down to my very heart; But ah, it wounds a thousand, like a dart, Of every age, each sex: they all are free To look at the same features, just like me, And that is why with jealousy I smart, Not knowing which sweet face will ever start To fill with joy my human destiny. If mortal beauty stops my thought that burns, It means it did not come with that bright ray Which brought the soul down here: it is desire From earth. But if it goes beyond, it spurns Your name, O Love, and seeks another day, Unmoved by instinct base or earthly fire. (G 277; T 133)178 With etchings and with colors you have made Man’s art reach nature and, much more than this, Taken away from her, part of her bliss, Making her beauty fairer by your trade. Now you with learned hand, and unafraid Of nobler work, wrote your analysis To steal from nature glories we did miss, And, given life again, no more they fade. Whatever beauty all the ages gave, To death it had to yield, to nature bow, For to their fatal goal all things arrive. But, rousing man’s dead greatness from its grave, In spite of death you make it live, and now You make yourself eternally alive. (G 278; T 138)179 Who wants much more than leaves – Let him not come in May. (G 279; T 141)180 The force of a fair face lifts me to heaven

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo C’altro non è c’al mondo mi diletti: ascender vivo fra gli spirti eletti per grazia tal, c’ogni altra par men buona. Se ben col fattor l’opra suo consuona, che colpa vuol giustizia ch’io n’aspetti, s’i’ amo, anz’ardo, e per divin concetti onoro e stimo ogni gentil persona? ………… (G 280; T 142) L’alma inquieta e confusa in sé non truova altra cagion c’alcun grave peccato mal conosciuto, onde non è celato all’immensa pietà c’a’ miser giova. I’ parlo a te, Signor, c’ogni mie pruova fuor del tuo sangue non fa l’uom beato: miserere di me, da ch’io son nato a la tuo legge; e non fie cosa nuova. ………… (G 281; T 143) Arder sole’ nel freddo ghiaccio il foco; or m’è l’ardente foco un freddo ghiaccio, disciolto, Amor, quello insolubil laccio, e morte or m’è, che m’era festa e gioco. Quel primo amor che ne diè tempo e loco, nella strema miseria è greve impaccio a l’alma stanca … ………… (G 282; T 144) Con tanta servitù, con tanto tedio e con falsi concetti e gran periglio dell’alma, a sculpir qui cose divine. (G 283; T 145) Non può, Signor mie car, la fresca e verde età sentir, quant’a l’ultimo passo si cangia gusto, amor, voglie e pensieri. Più l’alma acquista ove più ’l mondo perde; l’arte e la morte non va bene insieme: che convien più che di me dunche speri?



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(No sweeter thing than this on earth I find), And with the blessed souls can dwell my mind, – A grace to mortals very seldom given. Its Maker and that face seem so much even, That all my earthly dreams I leave behind, And then I shape my thoughts for all mankind When toward a gentle heart I feel love-driven. ………… (G 280; T 142)181 For its unrest my soul can only scan Some grievous sin committed long ago, Not recognized at all, but which you know In your great pity on this wretched man. I speak to you, O Lord, for each my plan, Without your Blood, has gained me grief and woe: Have mercy on me, born unto your law! Hearken my ancient cry – I know you can. ………… (G 281; T 143) Even in ice my flame once found its way, And now all flames are only ice, I think: Broken, O Love, is that unbreakable link, And is now death what once was feast and play. Ah, that first love which triumphed, wide and gay, Has brought my weary soul onto the brink Of despair, in my utmost woe … ………… (G 282; T 144) With so much servitude, with so much anguish, And with false concepts periling my soul, Sculpt I must, here on earth, bright things of heaven. (G 283; T 145)182 Youth, in its greenness, cannot know, O Lord, How taste and love and longing change like weather, And how man’s thoughts, ah, fear the final step. The soul gains more, the more it quits the world; My art and death do not go well together: What shall I do? From me what do you hope?

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 284; T 146) S’a tuo nome ho concetto alcuno immago, non è senza del par seco la morte, onde l’arte e l’ingegno si dilegua. Ma se, quel c’alcun crede, i’ pur m’appago che si ritorni a viver, a tal sorte ti servirò, s’avvien che l’arte segua. (G 285; T 147) Giunto è già ’l corso della vita mia, con tempestoso mar, per fragil barca, al comun porto, ov’a render si varca conto e ragion d’ogni opra trista e pia. Onde l’affettüosa fantasia che l’arte mi fece idol e monarca conosco or ben com’era d’error carca e quel c’a mal suo grado ogn’uom desia. Gli amorosi pensier, già vani e lieti, che fien or, s’a duo morte m’avvicino? D’una so ’l certo, e l’altra mi minaccia. Né pinger né scolpir fie più che quieti l’anima, volta a quell’amor divino c’aperse, a prender noi, ’n croce le braccia. (G 286; T 148) Gl’infiniti pensier mie d’error pieni, negli ultim’anni della vita mia, ristringer si dovrien ’n un sol che sia guida agli etterni suo giorni sereni. Ma che poss’io, Signor, s’a me non vieni coll’usata ineffabil cortesia? ………… (G 287; T 149) Di giorno in giorno insin da’ mie prim’anni, Signor, soccorso tu mi fusti e guida, onde l’anima mia ancor si fida di doppia aita ne’ mie doppi affanni. (G 288; T 150) Le favole del mondo m’hanno tolto



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(G 284; T 146)183 If for your name some image I conceive, Merciless death soon comes along with it, And its appearance wins both art and mind. And though it pleases me, as some believe, To rise from death and live. I’ll never quit Your service, only if art come behind. (G 285; T 147)184 Arrived already is my life’s brief course, Through a most stormy sea, in a frail bark, At mankind’s common port and at the shores Where one accounts for one’s deeds, bright or dark. O now I know how foolish and how stark My art has been, so far from its true source, And how I made an idol and a monarch Of something that, alas, gives but remorse. Of all my thoughts of love, once gay and light, What will now be, if to two deaths I’m near? Of the first I am sure, the second I dread. Painting no more, nor sculpture, can now quiet My soul, turned to that Love divine that, here, To take us, opened its arms on a cross and bled. (G 286; T 148) My countless thoughts, so wrong and so astray, In these last years of life now almost gone Should come again and gather into one To take me yonder to a deathless day. But, Lord, how can such thought now come my way Without your kind sweet grace? That you have done ………… (G 287; T 149) Since my first years, O Lord, from day to day, You were my guide, my comfort, and my cure; This is the reason why my soul is sure Of double grace in my double dismay. (G 288; T 150)185 The fables of the world, as rushing wind,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo il tempo dato a contemplare Iddio, né sol le grazie suo poste in oblio, ma con lor, più che senza, a peccar volto. Quel c’altri saggio, me fa cieco e stolto e tardi a riconoscer l’error mio; manca la speme, e pur cresce il desio che da te sia dal propio amor disciolto. Ammezzami la strada c’al ciel sale, Signor mie caro, e a quel mezzo solo salir m’è di bisogno la tuo ’ita. Mettimi in odio quante ’l mondo vale e quante suo bellezze onoro e colo, c’anzi morte caparri eterna vita. (G 289; T 151) Non è più bassa o vil cosa terrena che quel che, senza te, mi sento e sono, onde a l’alto desir chiede perdono la debile mie propia e stanca lena. Deh, porgi, Signor mio, quella catena che seco annoda ogni celeste dono: la fede, dico, a che mi stringo e sprono; né, mie colpa, n’ho grazia intiera e piena. Tanto mi fie maggior, quante più raro il don de’ doni, e maggior fia se, senza, pace e contento il mondo in sé non have. Po’ che non fusti del tuo sangue avaro, che sarà di tal don la tuo clemenza, se ’l ciel non s’apre a noi con altra chiave? (G 290; T 152) Scarco d’un’importuna e greve salma, Signor mie caro, e dal mondo disciolto, qual fragil legno a te stanco rivolto da l’orribil procella in dolce calma. Le spine e ’ chiodi e l’una e l’altra palma col tuo benigno umil pietoso volto prometton grazia di pentirsi molto, e speme di salute a la trist’alma.



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Have swept the time I had to know my God; And so, not only I forgot how kind He was to me, but also sank in mud. What makes another wise, has made me blind, And slow to feel the beating lust of my blood. Hope fails me now, but ah, my heart and mind Are weary of self-love, which is but clod. Cut me by half the road that climbs to you, For even for that half alone I will, Dear Lord, need all your help in my poor strife. Make me hate what the world thinks great and new, And all its beauties which I honor still, To earn, before I die, eternal life. (G 289; T 151)186 There is nothing on earth more base and vain Than what I am, and feel, far from your face; With weak and fainting breath from this low place I cry, therefore, to you, O first and main Desire. Hand me, my Lord, that saving chain Which brings and binds all other heavenly grace: Faith, I mean, – faith which I long to retrace Since, through my sin, I lost its full domain. Being so rare, this gift of gifts, O God, Shall be to me both happiness and rest, For, without this, the world can give no peace. You who have lavished on me all your Blood, – My loss of faith how can you not detest, If heaven opens to no other keys? (G 290; T 152)187 Relieved of an exacting, grievous weight, And freed, O Lord, from all this world at last, Wearied, to you I turn, like a ship from the vast And fearful storm to where the calm is great. Your thorns and nails, your open hands give fast Assurance that not long have I to wait For the grace of repenting of my past And saving my sad soul before it’s late.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Non mirin co’ iustizia i tuo sant’occhi il mie passato, e ’l gastigato orecchio; non tenda a quello il tuo braccio severo. Tuo sangue sol mie colpe lavi e tocchi, e più abondi, quant’i’ son più vecchio, di pronta aita e di perdono intero. (G 291; T 153) Penso e ben so c’alcuna colpa preme, occulta a me, lo spirto in gran martire; privo dal senso e dal suo propio ardire il cor di pace, e ’l desir d’ogni speme. Ma chi è teco, Amor, che cosa teme che grazia allenti inanzi al suo partire? ………… (G 292; T 154) Ben sarien dolce le preghiere mie, se virtù mi prestassi da pregarte: nel mio fragil terren non è già parte da frutto buon, che da sé nato sie. Tu sol se’ seme d’opre caste e pie, che là germuglian, dove ne fa’ parte; nessun propio valor può seguitarte, se non gli mostri le tuo sante vie. ………… (G 293; T 155) Carico d’anni e di peccati pieno e col trist’uso radicato e forte, vicin mi veggio a l’una e l’altra morte, e parte ’l cor nutrisco di veleno. Né propie forze ho, c’al bisogno sièno per cangiar vita, amor, costume o sorte, senza le tuo divine e chiare scorte, d’ogni fallace corso guida e freno. Signor mie car, non basta che m’invogli c’aspiri al ciel sol perché l’alma sia, non come prima, di nulla, creata. Anzi che del mortal la privi e spogli, prego m’ammezzi l’alta e erta via, e fie più chiara e certa la tornata.



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Let not your holy eyes in judgment scan My days that were; let not your ear, so long Offended, make you stretch an arm to fall In anger on me. Let your blood wash all My sins, let it flow deep to cleanse my wrong: My Lord, have pity on a poor old man! (G 291; T 153)188 I know and feel that some mysterious stain, Of long ago, crushes my soul today. Plundered by sense, by boldness led astray, My heart and mind now hope for peace in vain. But, Love, who is with you – should he complain Grace may abate before he goes away? ………… (G 292; T 154)189 How sweetly would my prayers ever be If you would lend me grace to pray and cry. In this my sterile ground, not one good tree Without your aid can ever fructify. You – you alone are seed that cannot die And makes all goodness blossom before me. No human virtue can attain the sky Unless you show the way to sanctity. ………… (G 293; T 155)190 Burdened with age and ah, so full of sin, And with all evil habits deep and strong, Already to two deaths I now belong, And feed my heart on poison and chagrin. Gone is my strength and I cannot begin To change my fate, my life, my love, my song, For, without you, I am forever wrong, And only with your guidance I may win. O dear my Lord, now it is not enough To turn to you so that my soul once more Be pure as when it came to this abode. Before you take my body weak and rough, Shorten both time and way, I do implore, And easy, then, and bright shall be the road.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G 294; T 156) Mentre m’attrista e duol, parte m’è caro ciascun pensier c’a memoria mi riede il tempo andato, e che ragion mi chiede de’ giorni persi, onde non è riparo. Caro m’è sol, perc’anzi morte imparo quant’ogni uman diletto ha corta fede; tristo m’è, c’a trovar grazi’ e mercede negli ultim’anni a molte colpe è raro. Ché ben c’alle promesse tua s’attenda, sperar forse, Signore, è troppo ardire c’ogni superchio indugio amor perdoni. Ma pur par nel tuo sangue si comprenda, se per noi par non ebbe il tuo martire, senza misura sien tuo cari doni. (G 295; T 157) Di morte certo, ma non già dell’ora, la vita è breve e poco me n’avanza; diletta al senso, è non però la stanza a l’alma, che mi prega pur ch’i’ mora. Il mondo è cieco e ’l tristo esempro ancora vince e sommerge ogni prefetta usanza; spent’è la luce e seco ogni baldanza, trionfa il falso e ’l ver non surge fora. Deh, quando fie, Signor, quel che s’aspetta per chi ti crede? c’ogni troppo indugio tronca la speme e l’alma fa mortale. Che val che tanto lume altrui prometta, s’anzi vien morte, e senza alcun refugio ferma per sempre in che stato altri assale? (G 296; T 158) S’avvien che spesso il gran desir prometta a’ mie tant’anni di molt’anni ancora, non fa che morte non s’appressi ognora, e là dove men duol manco s’affretta. A che più vita per gioir s’aspetta, se sol nella miseria Iddio s’adora? Lieta fortuna, e con lunga dimora, tanto più nuoce quante più diletta.



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(G 294; T 156)191 Though saddening and hurting, dear to me Is every thought that brings me back my past, And questions me about the sins amassed In all my days, lost irretrievably: Dear, for I learn, before my death, and see How every human joy can never last; And sad, because I fear grace comes not fast, In his last years, to heed a sinner’s plea. For, although I believe your promises, I should not hope that your benevolence Forgive at once one who so long delays. And yet, O Lord, your Blood has taught me this: Just as your martyrdom has been immense, Equally so must be your precious grace. (G 295; T 157)192 Certain of death, not of its moment, I Know that a little life is left to me; Friend to the senses, earth is enemy To the soul, which is urging me to die. Blind is the world, and evil actions cry Victory over love and purity. Dead is all light with its audacity; Truth is outcast, and triumphs every lie. When will, O Lord, your kingdom end the fright Of those who still believe? Too much delay Severs our hope and keeps the soul in dread. Why promise all your splendor on our night, If death comes sooner and makes all its prey, Catching us fallen, far from you, and dead? (G 296; T 158)193 Although my longing seem to promise more Long years besides the many that have fled, It cannot keep my death away one thread, – Death which less hurts one if less waited for. If only misery makes us adore, Why want more life and happiness, instead? By longer life we are deceived, misled, As by the greater luck we seem to store.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo E se talor, tuo grazia, il cor m’assale, Signor mie caro, quell’ardente zelo che l’anima conforta e rassicura, da che ’l propio valor nulla mi vale, subito allor sarie da girne al cielo: ché con più tempo il buon voler men dura. (G 297; T 159) Se lungo spazio del trist’uso e folle più temp’il suo contrario a purgar chiede, la morte già vicina nol concede, né freno il mal voler da quel ch’e’ volle. (G 298; T 160) Non fur men lieti che turbati e tristi che tu patissi, e non già lor, la morte, gli spirti eletti, onde le chiuse porte del ciel, di terra a l’uom col sangue apristi. Lieti, poiché, creato, il redemisti dal primo error di suo misera sorte; tristi, a sentir c’a la pena aspra e forte, servo de’ servi in croce divenisti. Onde e chi fusti, il ciel ne diè tal segno che scurò gli occhi suoi, la terra aperse, tremorno i monti e torbide fur l’acque. Tolse i gran Padri al tenebroso regno, gli angeli brutti in più doglia sommerse; godé sol l’uom, c’al battesmo rinacque. (G 299; T 161) Al zucchero, a la mula, a le candele, aggiuntovi un fiascon di malvagia, resta sì vinta ogni fortuna mia, ch’i’ rendo le bilance a san Michele. Troppa bonaccia sgonfia sì le vele, che senza vento in mar perde la via la debil mie barca, e par che sia una festuca in mar rozz’e crudele. A rispetto a la grazia e al gran dono, al cib’, al poto e a l’andar sovente



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Oh, when my heart is overcome, my Lord, By that new sudden breath of ardent faith Which reassures my soul with heaven’s song, Since nothing by myself can I afford, Then it is time to come to you through death: For longer time makes my good will less strong. (G 297; T 159)194 Such a long time of foolish, evil passion Takes twice as long to cleanse my sins, my ways; But, now so near, death cannot grant such grace, Nor can I curb my will from its sad fashion. (G 298; T 160)195 Both glad and sad the blessed spirits were, The hour you suffered, and not they, the force Of death, through which you opened heaven’s doors To man from your blood-dripping sepulcher: Glad, for they saw at last man’s ancient blur Forever cleansed in so divine a source; And sad, for God himself died on a cross, Become a slave to slaves without a stir. But Who You were, to earth all heavens showed: All the stars darkened, the world shook and oh, All mountains quaked, all seas were tossed and torn. Our first great fathers left their dark abode, All ugly angels sank in fiercer woe, And only man rejoiced, to grace reborn. (G 299; T 161)196 Sugar, a mare, and candles, plus a flask Of malvasia, have so overcome My every way of thanks, that, almost dumb, I give Saint Michael back both scale and task. This too much calm, for which I did not ask, Flattens my sails and makes my life become A frail and wind-tossed bark, soon to succumb Like bit of straw in ocean rough and brusque. Compared with the great generosity Of such a gift – food, drink, and quicker ride –

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo c’a ogni mi’ bisogno è caro e buono, Signor mie car, ben vi sare’ nïente per merto a darvi tutto quel ch’i’ sono: ché ’l debito pagar non è presente. (G 300; T 162) Per croce e grazia e per diverse pene son certo, monsignor, trovarci in cielo; ma prima c’a l’estremo ultimo anelo, goderci in terra mi parria pur bene. Se l’aspra via coi monti e co ’l mar tiene l’un da l’altro lontan, lo spirto e ’l zelo non cura intoppi o di neve o di gelo, né l’alia del pensier lacci o catene. Ond’io con esso son sempre con voi, e piango e parlo del mio morto Urbino, che vivo or forse saria costà meco, com’ebbi già in pensier. Sua morte poi m’affretta e tira per altro cammino, dove m’aspetta ad albergar con seco. (G 301; T 164) Di più cose s’attristan gli occhi mei, e ’l cor di tante quant’al mondo sono; se ’l tuo di te cortese e caro dono non fussi, della vita che farei? Del mie tristo uso e dagli esempli rei, fra le tenebre folte, dov’i’ sono, spero aita trovar non che perdono, c’a chi ti mostri, tal prometter dei. ………… (G 302; T 165) Non più per altro da me stesso togli l’amor, gli affetti perigliosi e vani, che per fortuna avversa o casi strani, ond’e’ tuo amici dal mondo disciogli, Signor mie car, tu sol che vesti e spogli, e col tuo sangue l’alme purghi e sani da l’infinite colpe e moti umani, …………



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Each filling a great need, as you can see, O my dear lord, if all of me I tried To give you, even this would nothing be: To pay a debt is not a gift aside. (G 300; T 162)197 Through cross and grace and through our human pain, Monsignor, we shall meet above one day; And yet, I think, before we go away, To cherish this our earth would not be vain. Though pathless mountains and wild seas detain One from the other, still our souls’ bright ray Cannot by frost and snow be led astray, Nor can our winged thought fear trap or chain. With it, therefore, I am beside you still, And mourn and speak of my Urbino dead, Who, if alive, would visit you with me, As I once thought to do. But now I will Take a new trip to somewhere else, instead, – To heaven, where he wants me presently. (G 301; T 164)198 My eyes are grieved by all the things they knew, My heart by all the world’s wide misery; Without your dear gift of yourself to me, Lord, of this life of mine what would I do? Not only your forgiveness, but help, too, I hope to find in this my darkest sea Of evil habits, of sin’s luring plea: For I know all your promises are true. ………… (G 302; T 165)199 There is no better way to make me stay Far from the vain and dangerous love of sense, Than through misfortune, ache, and violence, Whereby you show your friends the one, true way, O my dear Lord, who give and take away, And with your Blood alone can heal and cleanse Man’s every action and his fault immense. …………

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (G APPENDIX 3-4; T 1) Davitte colla frombola e io coll’arco. Michelagnolo. Rott’è l’alta colonna.

(G APPENDIX 5; T 166-1) Al dolce mormorar d’un fiumicello c’aduggia di verd’ombra un chiaro fonte c’a star il cor (?) … (G APPENDIX 6; T 166-2) Vidi donna bella ch’i’ … la sorte mia … io mi senti’ tutto consolato ………… (G APPENDIX 16; T 82) Febbre, fianchi, dolor, morbi, occhi e denti. ………… (G APPENDIX 17; T 8) La m’arde e lega e temmi e parm’un zucchero. (G APPENDIX 21; T 20) Dentr’a me giugne al cor, gia’ fatto tale (G APPENDIX 24; T 166-6) ………… Non altrimenti Dedal si riscosse, non altrimenti el sol l’ombra discaccia. ………… (G APPENDIX 26; T 28) Che mal si può amar ben chi non si vede. (G APPENDIX 29; T 54) Fatto arsicciato e cotto dal sole e da maggior caldi. (G APPENDIX 31; T 67) Signore, io fallo e veggio el mio fallire, ma fo com’uom che arde e ‘l foco ha ‘n seno, ché ‘l duol pur cresce, e la ragion vien meno



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(G APPENDIX 3-4; T 1)200 David with a sling And I with a bow. Michelagnolo. Broken is the high column. (G APPENDIX 5; T 166-1)201 At the sweet murmuring of a sweet rill Which hides in its green shade a limpid spring And … … … … (G APPENDIX 6; T 166-2)202 I saw a lovely lady In whom … my fate … I felt all-comforted ………… (G APPENDIX 16; T 82) Fever, lumbago, and weak eyes and teeth ………… (G APPENDIX 17; T 8)203 She burns me, binds me, tastes like a lump of sugar. (G APPENDIX 21; T 20)204 Already immense, it penetrates my heart. (G APPENDIX 24; T 166-6)205 ………… This is the way Daedalus arose, This is the way the sun rejects the shadow ………… (G APPENDIX 26; T 28) One cannot love too well a face unseen. (G APPENDIX 29; T 54)206 Undone and burned and roasted by the sun and the summer. (G APPENDIX 31; T 67) My Lord, I sin, and all my sin I know, But am like one who burns and cannot cure The flame within; my reason, faint and poor,

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo ed è già quasi vinta dal martire. Sole’ spronare el mio caldo desire per non turbare el bel viso sereno: non posso più; di man m’ha tolto ‘l freno, e l’alma disperando ha preso ardire. (G APPENDIX 34; T 80-1) Nulla già valsi ………… il tuo volto nel mio ben può veder, tuo grazia e tuo mercede, chi per superchia luce te non vede. (G APPENDIX 35; T 80-2) Non ha l’abito intero prima alcun, c’a l’estremo dell’arte e della vita. ………… (G APPENDIX 36; T 80-3) In tal misero stato, il vostro viso ne presta, come ‘l sol, tenebre e luce. ………… (G APPENDIX 37; T 80-4) Se ben talor tuo gran pietà m’assale, non men che tuo durezza curo o temo, ché l’uno e l’altro stremo è ne’ colpi d’amor piaga mortale. ………… (G APPENDIX 38; T 80-5) Né so se d’altro stral già mai s’avviene, ………… ma mie fortuna vinse il suo costume. (G APPENDIX 39; T 80-6) Che posso o debbo o vuoi ch’io pruovi ancora, Amore, anzi ch’io mora? ………… Dille che sempre ognora suo pietà vinta da tuo fera stella,



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Is almost vanquished by increasing throe. I should spur on my warm desire, but oh, Can I displease those eyes so fair and pure? I cannot bear it, yet one thing is sure – Though desperate, my soul still wants to go. (G APPENDIX 34; T 80-1)207 No worth was mine ………… Your face can see in mine Its own alluring grace and dazzling worth: Infinite light can never see itself. (G APPENDIX 35; T 80-2)208 There is no perfect art Without the knowledge, first, Of the extremes of art itself and life. ………… (G APPENDIX 36; T 80-3)209 In my unhappiness your eyes can lend (As the sun does) all darkness and all light. ………… (G APPENDIX 37; T 80-4)210 Whenever your great pity on me beams, I fear it as I do your cruelty: I know that both extremes Can be, to those who love, a mortal wound. ………… (G APPENDIX 38; T 80-5)211 Does he recall old darts? I cannot tell, ………… But he was vanquished by my destiny. (G APPENDIX 39; T 80-6)212 What do you want me, Love, to feel and try? What else, before I die? ………… Tell her, her sweetest sigh Is hushed forever by your cruel star.

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APPENDICE

(G APPARATO A TESTO 19; T: 16) Come cosa non fu giama si’ bella, così non fu giama’ tanto dolore quant’è perder d’udirla e di vederla. ………… (G APPARATO A TESTO 76; T 40) O che memoria d’alcun colpo sia d’un dolcie fiero dardo, con che s’arma amore. ………… ………… (G APPARATO A TESTO 88; T 108) D’un foco son i be’ vostr’occhi accesi ch’arde altrui di lontano e loro aggiaccia; un poter sol v’è dato nelle braccia che non mosse com’ muovon gli altri pesi. Una viva beltà, se ben compresi, che non ha morte, e gli altri uccide e spaccia. ………… (FREY 30; T 30) Non posso or non veder dentr’ a chi muore Tuo luce etterna senza gran desio. (FREY 166-3; T 166-3) … non già, ma gli occhi mei son quegli … i tuo soli e begli … vita e morte intera trovato hanno



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APPENDIX In this section, we publish four texts that Tusiani included in the corpus of Michelangelo’s poems but that Girardi – in his edition of 1960 – published in the Apparato, as fragments: lines without poetic autonomy or variants of poems that Michelangelo rejected. A fifth text and a set of four fragments (T 30, T 166–3, T 166–4, T 166–5, T 166–7), not found in Girardi’s Apparato, are given in the version published by Frey in his Die Dichtungen des Michelangelo Buonarroti, the source of Tusiani’s translation, as mentioned in the editor’s note. (G APPARATO A TESTO 19; T 16)213 As no one is more beautiful than she, So there was never a much greater sorrow Than not to hear or see her any more. ………… (G APPARATO A TESTO 76; T: 40) It might well be remembrance of some blow, A wound from one of the darts with which Love fights. ………… ………… (G APPARATO A TESTO 88; T: 108)214 The fire of your eyes, alive and swift. Can burn and freeze all people, as it charms. Yours are, indeed, the most powerful arms. Though never any weight had they to lift. A lively beauty, yes, a heavenly gift That never dies, and yet both kills and harms. ………… (FREY 30; T: 30)215 Now in a dying glance I cannot see Your deathless light without desiring it. (FREY 166–3; T 166–3) … not only, but my eyes are those … yours in which beauty grows … they found both death and happiness

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo … tante meno m’offende e preme ‘l danno … mi distruggie e cuoce dall’altra ancor mi nuoce … e amor più quante piu gratia truovo. … ch’io penso o pruovo … le, e ‘l ben mi crescie in un momento … vo è stran tormento … non mi sgomento … miseria e stento … dolcie qua dove non è ma’ bene … abando ‘l dolore con maggior pene. (FREY 166-4; T 166-4) Esser può, che d’ogni angoscia tedio … sie sol rimedio … fra noi non è già cosa umana … e po’ el cor la mente e l’alma sana … mal d’ogni errore … isdegnio e furore … discaccia e l’una e l’altra morte … dalla mi’ sorte. ………… (FREY 166-5; T 166-5) ………… L’una dipar se con la mia sorte (?), L’altra mirando pur mi porge aita… ………… (FREY 166-7; T 166-7) ………… … o e stanco anelo … o el tempo rio … luce al goir rio … in tenebre e gelo ………… … ombra discaccia … e l’altra penna … ter no porta ………… … el ciel conforta.



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… disarms me and at one time it harms me … and love the more of grace I find. … in my mind … and joy increases in a moment … is strange torment … hardship and detriment … on earth where sweetness cannot be … sorrow with greater misery.

(FREY 166-4; T 166-4) It might be boredom and anxiety … the only remedy … on earth no mortal thing at all … then heals both heart and soul … of every error … anger and hate … chases away death’s double terror … from my fate. ………… (FREY 166-5; T 166-5) ………… One seems a … with my own fate (?), The other with a glance can give me help.

(FREY 166-7; T 166-7) ………… … weary my longing cries … or distress … light of my happiness … in the darkness and in ice ………… … rejects the shadow … and the other wing (?) … no door ………… … comforts heaven (?)

A Chronology of Michelangelo’s Life

MICHELANGELO’S LIFE

YEAR

ITALIAN HISTORY

1475 6 March: birth of Michelangiolo di Lodovico di Lionardo di Buonarroto Simoni in Caprese, near Arezzo, from Lodovico, podestà of Caprese and Chiusi, and Francesca di Neri di Miniato del Sera. Death of his mother.

1481 1484

After a long struggle with his father, Michelangelo starts his apprenticeship to Domenico and Davide Ghirlandaio, the most important Florentine painters of the time. He gives proof of great ability in copying from ancient models.

1488

He enters the Scuola del Giardino (Garden Museum), in Florence: the school, founded by Lorenzo de’ Medici (il Magnifico), was directed by Bertoldo di Giovanni, sculptor and pupil of Donatello. Befriended by Lorenzo, he gets acquainted with the intellectuals of his court: Poliziano, Landino, Marsilio Ficino, Pico della Mirandola.

1489–92

Death of Pope Sisto IV (Francesco della Rovere). Election of Pope Innocent VIII (Giovanni Battista Cybo).

(Continued)



A Chronology of Michelangelo’s Life

247

MICHELANGELO’S LIFE

YEAR

ITALIAN HISTORY

After the death of Lorenzo, Michelangelo returns home but later is back to live in the Casa de’ Medici and work for Piero, Lorenzo’s son.

1492

8 April: Death of Lorenzo il Magnifico, succeeded by his son Piero. For the Italian peninsula, this event marks the start of a long period of political instability and turmoil, of which the European monarchies (France and Spain) took advantage. Death of Innocent VIII. Election of Pope Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia).

Michelangelo, enjoying the patronage of Piero, begins to study anatomy by dissecting corpses in the Santo Spirito hospital. He sculpts Madonna della Scala and Battaglia dei Lapiti e dei Centauri.

1493–4

In October, he quits Florence for Venice and Bologna, enjoying the patronage of the Bolognese nobleman, Gianfrancesco Aldovrandi. In Bologna, three statues for S. Domenico tomb.

1494

November: back to Florence.

1495

He moves to Rome (until 1501), enjoying the patronage of Cardinal Raffaele Riario.

1496

Bacco, sculpted in Rome for Jacopo Galli. First time in Carrara to quarry marble for the Pietà.

1497

1498

September: King Charles VIII of France invades Italy, taking advantage of its political disunity and weakness. In Florence, Piero de’ Medici has to accept his terms renouncing his claim to Pisa, Sarzana, and Livorno. Because of his subjugation to Charles VIII, in November he is expelled from the city. A republic, inspired to the radical pauperism of the friar Girolamo Savonarola (1452–98) and led by the friar himself, is established.

After having been excommunicated the year before by Pope Alexander VI, Savonarola is hanged and burned on the stake as a heretic.

Pietà, now in St. Peter’s Basilica, for 1499 Cardinal Jean Bilhères de Lagraulas. Return to Florence.

1501 1502

Pier Soderini (1450–1522) is appointed as Gonfaloniere for life as new head of the Florentine republic. (Continued)

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YEAR

ITALIAN HISTORY

Michelangelo begins his literary activity by reading poets and authors who write in volgare (the Italian language); first sonnets. Commissioned to make twelve statues of Apostles for Santa Maria del Fiore.

1503

Death of Pope Alexander VI. Election and death of Pope Pius III (Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini). Election of Pope Julius II (Giuliano della Rovere).

1504 Michelangelo sculpts the David, placed in front of Palazzo Vecchio (the government headquarter), St. Matthew, Tondo Pitti, Tondo Taddei, Bruges Madonna; he paints Tondo Doni. Commissioned by the Republic to fresco Palazzo Vecchio’s Council Room alongside Leonardo da Vinci: his cartoon for Battaglia di Cascina, now lost, was admired and studied by generations of artists. Summoned to Rome by Julius II and commissioned to build his tomb.

1505

1506 After some months in Carrara, Michelangelo arrives in Rome. Because the Pope prefers Bramante to him, in April he returns to Florence; in November, reconciliation with the Pope in Bologna, where Michelangelo erects a bronze statue of the Pope for S. Petronio Basilica. Frescoes of the vault of the Sistine Chapel, in Rome.

1508–12 1512

1513 New contract for Julius II’s tomb. Michelangelo sculpts Moses and The Slaves.

The cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, son of Lorenzo, returns to Florence through the help of Pope Julius II and the Lega Santa, a Spanish army that devastates part of Tuscany. The Medicis are reinstated in power. Death of Julius II and election of Pope Leo X, second son of Lorenzo de’ Medici.

1516–19 Leo X appoints Michelangelo to decorate the facade of S. Lorenzo church, the Medici’s family church in Florence. Project abandoned in 1519 due (probably) to lack of funds. In Rome he sculpts Risen Christ for S. Maria sopra Minerva church.

1519–20 (Continued)



A Chronology of Michelangelo’s Life

MICHELANGELO’S LIFE

YEAR

Plans for the Medici Chapel, the New Sacristy of S. Lorenzo, which keeps him busy until the first half of 1530s.

1520

249

ITALIAN HISTORY

1521

Death of Leo X.

1522–3

Election and death of Adrian VI (Adriaan Florenszoon). Election of Clement VII (Giulio de’ Medici), grandson of Lorenzo il Magnifico.

1527

Sack of Rome by mutinous Imperial troops (lanzichenecchi). Pope Clement VII was the nephew of Lorenzo, being son of his brother Giuliano; therefore, he was also the ruler of Florence. After the sack of Rome, people in Florence expelled the Medicis and established another republic, inspired – as the previous one – by Savonarola’s principles.

After the death of his beloved brother Buonarroto, Michelangelo takes care of his son Lionardo.

1528

Michelangelo is elected to the Nove della Milizia in Florence; after a period in Ferrara, he travels to Venice as part of an attempt to flee to France, but he eventually returns to Florence and resumes his position as Governor for the fortifications during the siege of the city.

1529

Michelangelo is pardoned by Pope Clement VII after he abandons Rome because of the sack and his election in Florence.

1530

End of the Republic of Florence after the city is besieged for two years by troops sent by the emperor after he and Clement VII reach an agreement. The Medicis are reinstated in power.

1532

Alessandro de’ Medici made Duke of Florence.

1530–3 Works on Julius II’s tomb after a third contract. In 1532–3 first meeting with Tommaso Cavalieri (1509–87), for whom he will always feel a deep affection. Michelangelo moves to Rome for good. Death of his father.

1534

Death of Pope Clement VII. Election of Pope Paul III (Alessandro Farnese). (Continued)

250

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YEAR

ITALIAN HISTORY

Pope Paul III appoints Michelangelo 1535 chief sculptor, painter, and architect to the Pope: this frees him from his previous contracts with Julius II’s heirs. Decoration of the end walls of the Sistine Chapel with the Last Judgement.

1536–41

1536–8 First meeting with the poet and noblewoman Vittoria Colonna, widow of the Marquis of Pescara, with whom he begins a deep religious exchange. Meeting with exiled citizens from Florence (L. Del Riccio, D. Giannotti). 1537

Cosimo de’ Medici made the second Duke of Florence.

1542 Last contract for Julius II’s tomb in S. Pietro in Vincoli church (less monumental than previously determined). He begins to fresco the Pauline chapel for the Pope. 1544 Death of Cecchino Bracci, pupil of Michelangelo, for whom he designs the tomb and writes a series of fifty epitaphs. Helped by Del Riccio and Giannotti, 1542–6 Michelangelo copies and organizes a part of his poems perhaps in preparation of their publication. 1545 Michelangelo takes part as gran Dantista to the conversations that inspire Giannotti’s Dialoghi de’ giorni che Dante consumò nel cercare l’inferno e ‘l purgatorio. Michelangelo begins to work on the 1546 Campidoglio. 1547 Appointed architect of St. Peter’s Basilica, which will keep him busy for the rest of his life. Death of Vittoria Colonna. In the Accademia Fiorentina, B. Varchi lectures about his sonnet Non ha l’ottimo artista. (Continued)



A Chronology of Michelangelo’s Life

MICHELANGELO’S LIFE

YEAR

251

ITALIAN HISTORY

1548 Michelangelo begins to sculpt the Pietà in Florentine Cathedral, which remains unfinished in 1555 because of a marble’s flaw. He writes to Varchi to thank him for 1549 his lecture.

His nephew Lionardo marries Cassandra di Donato Ridolfi.

Death of Pope Paul III.

1550

Election of Pope Julius III (Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte). First edition of Vasari’s Lives (Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori), including Michelangelo as the only living artist.

1553

First edition of A. Condivi’s Vita di Michelangelo.

Birth of Buonarroto, son of Lionardo 1554 and Cassandra. He begins to work on Pietà Rondanini. Death of his servant Francesco Amadori.

1555

He leaves Rome for the first time in twenty years for a pilgrimage to Loreto; on his way back, he spends a period of time in Spoleto.

1556

Death of Julius III. Election of Pope Marcellus II (Marcello Cervini degli Spannocchi) for only twenty-two days. After him, election of Paul IV (Gian Pietro Carafa).

Project for St. Peter’s dome, which he 1557– erects until the tambour. Projects for 1561 S. Maria degli Angeli and Porta Pia. 1559

Michelangelo is elected an academician (the second after the Duke) of the Florentine Accademia del Disegno.

1563

18 February: death of Michelangelo, 1564 at age eighty-eight, after a short sickness. According to his last will, his corpse is carried to Florence: his solemn funeral is in S. Lorenzo on 14 July. He is buried in S. Croce.

Death of Paul IV and election of Pius IV (Giovanni Angelo Medici di Marignano).

A General Bibliography on Michelangelo’s Literary Output

Italian Editions of Michelangelo’s Writings (listed alphabetically, by editor’s last name) Bardeschi Ciulich, Lucilla, and Paola Barocchi, eds. I ricordi di Michelangelo. Florence: Sansoni, 1970. Barelli, Ettore, ed. Michelangelo Buonarroti: Rime. Milan: Rizzoli, 1975. Barocchi, Paola, and Renzo Ristori, eds. Il carteggio di Michelangelo. Florence: S.P.E.S., 1965–83. Ceriello, Gustavo Rodolfo, ed. Rime di Michelangelo. Milan: Rizzoli, 1954. Corsaro, Antonio and Giorgio Masi, eds. Michelangelo Buonarroti. Rime e Lettere. Milan: Bompiani, 2016. Dobelli, Ausonio, ed. Michelangelo Buonarroti: Le rime. Milan: Signorelli, 1933. Fanelli, Tella, ed. Rime. By Michelangelo Buonarroti. Introduction, notes, and commentary by S. Fanelli. Preface by C. Montagnani. Milan: Garzanti, 2006. Girardi, Enzo Noè, ed. Michelangelo Buonarroti: Rime. Scrittori d’Italia 217. Bari: Laterza, 1960. Guasti, Cesare, ed. Le rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti. Florence: Le Monnier, 1863. Mastrocola, Paola, ed. Michelangelo Buonarroti. Rime e lettere. Turin: UTET, 1992. Michelangelo Buonarroti il Giovane, ed. Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti. Florence: Appresso i Giunti con licenzia de’ superiori, 1623. Milanesi, Gaetano, ed. Le Lettere di Michelangelo Buonarroti. Osnabrück: Biblio Verl, 1976. Piccoli, Valentino, ed. Le rime. Turin: Einaudi, 1930. Pieri, Marzio, and Luana Salvarini, eds. Le Rime di Michelangelo (1623). By Michelangelo Buonarroti il Giovane. Trent: La finestra, 2006. Poggi, Giovanni, Paola Barocchi, and Ristori Renzo, eds. Il carteggio di Michelangelo. 5 vols. Florence: Sansoni, 1965–79. Residori, Matteo, ed. Rime. By Michelangelo Buonarroti. Introduction by Mario Baratto. Essay by Thomas Mann. Milan: Mondadori, 1998.



A General Bibliography on Michelangelo’s Literary Output

253

Tarsi, Maria Chiara, ed. Canzoniere. By Michelangelo Buonarroti. Milan: Fondazione Pietro Bembo/Ugo Guanda Editore, 2015. Zaja, Paolo, ed. Rime. By Michelangelo Buonarroti. Milan: Rizzoli, 2010. Editions in English and Other Languages Bull, George, and Peter Porter, eds. and trans. Michelangelo, Life, Letters, and Poetry. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987. Frey, Carl, ed. Die Dichtungen des Michelagniolo Buonarroti. Berlin: Grote, 1897. Hall, Elizabeth S., ed. and trans. Sonnets of Michelangelo. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1905. Jennings, Elizabeth, ed. and trans. The Sonnets of Michelangelo. London: Folio Society, 1961. Linscott, Robert N., and Gilbert Creighton, ed. and trans. Complete Poems and Selected Letters of Michelangelo. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980. Mortimer, Anthony R., ed. and trans. Michelangelo. Poems and Letters: Selections, with the 1550 Vasari Life. London: Penguin, 2007. Nims, John F., ed. and trans. The Complete Poems of Michelangelo. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998. Ramsden, E.H., ed. and trans. The Letters of Michelangelo. 2 vols. London: Owen, 1963. Ryan, Christopher, ed. and trans. Michelangelo: The Poems. London: J.M. Dent, 1996. Saslow, James M., ed. and trans. The Poetry of Michelangelo: An Annotated Translation. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991. Symonds, John A., ed. and trans. The Sonnets of Michel Angelo and Tommaso Campanella. London: Smith, Elder, & Co., 1878. Tusiani, Joseph, ed. and trans. The Complete Poems of Michelangelo. London: Peter Owen, 1960. Secondary Sources on Michelangelo’s Life and Writings Akrigg, G.P., ed. Letters of King James VI and I. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Albonico, Simone. “La poesia del Cinquecento.” In Storia della letteratura italiana, X. La tradizione dei testi, edited by Claudio Ciociola, 693–740. Rome: Salerno, 2001. Amico-Mantia, A. L’amore e le rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti. Trapani : Tipografia Messina, 1899. Avanzo, Lodovico, V. De le rime di diversi nobili poeti toscani raccolte da M(esser) Dionigi Atanagi [...]. 2 vols. Venice, 1565. Baldacci, Luigi. Lirici del Cinquecento. Milan: Longanesi, 1984.

254

The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

Bardeschi, Ciulich, L. “Costanza ed evoluzione nella grafia di Michelangelo.” In Studi di Grammatica Italiana, vol. 3, 5–138. Florence: Sansoni, 1973. Berni, Francesco. Rime. Edited by D. Romei. Milan: Mursia, 1985. Biaglioli, Nicola, G. Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti il vecchio. Paris: l’Editore, 1821. Binni, Walter. Michelangelo scrittore. Turin: Einaudi, 1975. Bull, George. Michelangelo: A Biography. London: Viking, 1995. Cambon, Glauco. Michelangelo’s Poetry: Fury of Form. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. Campeggiani, Ida. “La ‘vendetta’ del duca Giuliano: ipotesi michelangiolesche.” Humanistica 6, no. 2 (2011): 73–86. –  Le varianti della poesia di Michelangelo: scrivere per via di porre. Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi, 2012. Castellani, Castellano. Versi di Santa Maria Nuova. Florence: Bartolomeo, S.M., 1559. Cellini, Benvenuto. Autobiography. Translated by George Bull. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1956. Clements, Robert J. Michelangelo: A Self-Portrait. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: PrenticeHall, 1963. –  The Poetry of Michelangelo. New York: New York University Press, 1966. Colonna, Vittoria. Rime. Edited by A. Bullock. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1982. Condivi, Ascanio. The Life of Michelangelo. Translated by Alice Sedgwick Wohl. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1976. –  Vita di Michelagnolo Buonarroti. Edited by G. Nencioni. Essays by M. Hirst and C. Elam. Florence: SPES, 1998. Contini, Gianfranco. “Recensione a Girardi.” Lingua Nostra 21, no. 2 (1960): ­68–72; then as “Le «Rime» di Michelangelo nell’edizione di Enzo Noè Girardi.” In., Frammenti di filologia romanza. Scritti di ecdotica e linguistica (1932–1989), edited by G. Breschi, 667–77. Vol. 1. Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2007. –  “Una lettura su Michelangelo [1937].” In Esercizi di lettura, 242–58. Turin: Einaudi, 1974. Corsaro, Antonio. “Intorno alle rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti. La silloge del 1546.” Giornale Storico della Letteratura Italiana 185, fasc. 612 (2008): 536–69. –  “La prima circolazione manoscritta delle rime di Michelangelo.” Medioevo e Rinascimento 25 (n.s. 22) (2011): 279–97. –  “L’autorialità del revisore. Intorno a una raccolta di rime di Michelangelo.” Ecdotica 8 (2011): 58–74. –  “Michelangelo e i letterati.” In Officine del nuovo: Sodalizi fra letterati, artisti ed editori nella cultura italiana fra Riforma e Controriforma: Atti del Simposio internazionale Utrecht, 8–10 novembre 2007, edited by H. Hendrix and P. Procaccioli, 383–425. Rome: Vecchiarelli, 2008.



A General Bibliography on Michelangelo’s Literary Output

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–  “Michelangelo e la lirica spirituale del Cinquecento.” In Ludovico Castelvetro. Letterati e grammatici nella crisi religiosa del Cinquecento. Atti della XIII Giornata Luigi Firpo, Torino, 21–22 settembre 2006, edited by M. Firpo and G. Mongini, 261–84. Florence: Olschki, 2008. –  “Michelangelo, il comico e la malinconia.” Studi e Problemi di Critica Testuale 49 (1994): 97–119. Croce, Benedetto. “La lirica cinquecentesca.” In Poesia popolare e poesia d’arte. Studi sulla poesia italiana dal Tre al Cinquecento, 341–441. Bari: Laterza, 1957. –  Poesia popolare e poesia d’arte. Bari: Laterza, 1946. Damian, M. “Struttura dei madrigali michelangioleschi.” In Omaggio a Gianfranco Folena, 905–20. Paduadio Editoriale Programma, 1992. De Maio, Romeo. Michelangelo e la Controriforma. Florence: Sansoni, 1990. De Sanctis, Natale. La lirica amorosa di Michelangelo Buonarroti. Palermo: Alberto Reber, 1898. Dollimore, Jonathan. “Subjectivity, Sexuality, and Transgression: The Jacobean Connection.” Renaissance Drama, n.s. 17 (1986): 53–81. Eisenbichler, Konrad. The Religious Poetry of Michelangelo: The Mystical Sublimation. In Michelangelo: Selected Scholarship in English, V, Drawings, Poetry and Miscellaneous Studies, edited with an introduction by W.E. Wallace, 195–208. New York: Garland, 1995. Favaro, Maiko. “Gli occhi del cielo. Sull’interpretazione di alcune Rime michelangiolesche.” Rivista di Letteratura Italiana 31, 2 (2013): 185–97. Fedi, Roberto. “Il canzoniere (1546) di Michelangelo Buonarroti.” In Il libro di poesia dal copista al tipografo: (Ferrara, 29–31 maggio 1987), edited by M. Santagata and A. Quondam, 193–213. Modena: Panini, 1989; then in Fedi, Roberto. La memoria della poesia. Canzionieri, lirici e libri di rime nel Rinascimento, 264–305. Rome: Salerno, 1990. –  “‘L’imagine vera.’ Vittoria Colonna, Michelangelo e un’idea di canzoniere.” Modern Language Notes, 107 (1992): 46–73. Felici, Andrea. Michelangelo a San Lorenzo (1515–1534). Il linguaggio architettonico del Cinquecento fiorentino. Florence: Olschki, 2015. Ferguson, Margaret, Maureen Quilligan, and Nancy Vickers, eds. Rewriting the Renaissance: The Discourses of Sexual Difference in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986. Ferrero, Giuseppe, G. Il petrarchismo del Bembo e le rime di Michelangelo. Turin: Edizioni dell’Erma, 1935. Ficino, Marsilio. Commentarium in Convivio Platonis. 1474. Translated and edited by Sears R. Jayne. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1943. Foscolo, Ugo. “Poems of Michel Angelo.” 1826. Reprinted in Edizione nazionale delle opere di Ugo Foscolo, 468–91. Vol. 10. Florence: Le Monnier, 1953. –  “Michel Angelo.” In Foscolo, Saggi e discorsi critici, edited by C. Foligno, 447–68. Florence: Le Monnier, 1953.

256

The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

Freadman, Anne. “Of Cats, and Companions, and the Name of George Sand.” In Grafts: Feminist Cultural Criticism, edited by Susan Sheridan, 125–56. New York: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, 1988. Freud, Sigmund. “The Moses of Michelangelo.” 1914. Reprinted in Standard Edition of the Works of Sigmund Freud 13:211–36. Friedrich, Hugo. Epoche della lirica italiana. Milan: Mursia, 1976. Frommel, Christoph L. Michelangelo und Tommaso de’ Cavalieri. Amsterdam: Castrum Peregrini, 1979. Garin, Eugenio. “Il pensiero di Michelangelo.” In Michelangelo artista, pensatore, scrittore, 529–41. Novara: De Agostini, 1965. Ghizzoni, Lucia. “Indagine sul ‘Canzoniere’ di Michelangelo.” Studi di Filologia Italiana 49 (1991): 167–87. Giannotti, Donato. Dialoghi di Donato Giannotti. Edited by Dioclecio Redig de Campos. Florence: Sansoni, 1939. –  Lettere a Piero Vettori. Pubblicate sopra gli originali del British Museum. Edited by R. Ridolfi and C. Roth Essay by R. Ridolfi. Florence: Vallecchi, 1932. Gibaldi, Joseph. “Vittoria Colonna: Child, Woman, and Poet.” In Women Writers of the Renaissance and Reformation, edited by Katharina M. Wilson, 22–46. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1987. Gilbert, Creighton. “Michelangelo’s Madrigal ‘gli Sguardi Che Tu Strazii.’” Art Bulletin 26, no. 1 (1944): 48–51. Girardi, Enzo N. Studi sulle rime di Michelangiolo. Milan: L’Eroica, 1964. –  Studi su Michelangiolo scrittore. Florence: Olschki, 1974. Gorni, Guglielmo. “Le ottave dei giganti.” In Michelangelo poeta e artista. Atti della giornata di studi, 21 gennaio 2005, edited by P. Grossi and M. Residori, 41–52. Paris: Istituto Italiano di Cultura, 2005. –  “Michelangelo Buonarroti.” In Poeti del Cinquecento, Poeti lirici, burleschi, satirici, e didascalici, edited by G. Gorni, M. Danzi, and S. Longhi, 573–622. Vol. 1. Milan-Naples: Ricciardi, 2001. –  “Obscurité et transparence dans les poèmes de Michel-Ange.” Cahiers de la Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Genève 4 (1991): 13–19. –  “Temi platonici in Michelangelo.” Intersezioni 15 (1995): 375–85. Gotti, Aurelio. Vita di Michelangelo Buonarroti narrata con l’aiuto di nuovi documenti. Florence: Tipografia della Gazzetta d’Italia Editrice, 1875. Hallock, Anne. Michelangelo the Poet. Pacific Grove, CA: Page-Ficklin Publications, 1978. Hatfield, Rab. The Wealth of Michelangelo. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2002. Hughes, Anthony. “A Lost Poem by Michelangelo?” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 44 (1981): 202–6. Isella, Dante “Di un madrigale di Michelangelo (e d’altro).” In Per Cesare Bozzetti: Studi di filologia e letteratura italiana, edited by S. Albonico, A. Comboni,



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G. Panizza, and C. Vela, 465–70. Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori, 1996. Kennedy, William, J. “Petrarchan Authority and Gender Revisions in Michelangelo’s ‘Rime.’” In Interpreting the Italian Renaissance: Literary Perspectives, edited by A. Toscano, 55–66. New York: Forum Italicum, 1991. LaBalme, Patricia, ed. Beyond Their Sex: Learned Women of the European Past. New York: New York University Press, 1980. Leites, Nathan. Art and Life: Aspects of Michelangelo. New York: New York University Press, 1986. Liebert, Robert S. Michelangelo: A Psychoanalytic Study of His Life and Images. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983. Lucente, Gregory. “Absence and Desire in Michelangelo’s Poetry: Literary Traditions and the Lesson(s) of the Manuscript.” Quaderni d’italianistica 8 (1987): 216–26. Marongiu, Marcella. “Tommaso de’ Cavalieri nella Roma di Clemente VII e Paolo III.” In Horti Esperidum. Studi di Storia del Collezionismo e della Storiografia Artistica. Rivista telematica semestrale, Materiali per la storia della cultura artistica antica e moderna, edited by F. Grisolia, 257–319. Fasciolo 1. Rome, 2013. Martelli, Mario. “Esegesi del madrigale 118 di Michelangelo.” Atti e memorie dell’Accademia Petrarca di Lettere Arti e Scienze di Arezzo n. s. 41 (1973–5 [ma 1977]): 347–66. Masi, Giorgio. “Il ‘gran restauro’: altre proposte di esegesi poetica michelangiolesca.” In Michelangelo Buonarroti: Leben, Werk und Wirkung. Positionen und Perspektiven der Forschung/Michelangelo Buonarroti: Vita, Opere, Ricezione. Approdi e prospettive della ricerca contemporanea, edited by G.D. Folliero-Metz and S. Gramatzki, 235–59. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2013. –  “Il tempo del nonfinito. Le storte sillabe di Michelangelo.” In Festina lente: il tempo della scrittura nella letteratura del Cinquecento, edited by C. Cassiani and M.C. Figorilli, 71–88. Introduction by N. Ordine. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2014. –  “La poesia difficile di Michelangelo: ancora sulle ‘cruces interpretationis’ delle rime.” Humanistica 4, no. 2 (2009): 93–107. –  “La poesia notturna di Michelangelo (e gli animali ‘vili’).” Studi rinascimentali 7 (2009): 39–50. –  “Le statue parlanti del Cavaliere e altri prodigi pasquineschi fiorentini (Bandinelli, Cellini, Michelangelo).” In Ex marmore. Pasquini; pasquinisti, pasquinate nell’Europa moderna. Atti del Colloquio internazionale: LecceOtranto, 17–19 novembre 2005, edited by C. Damianaki, P. Procaccioli, and A. Romano, 221–74. Manziana: Vecchiarelli, 2006. –  “Lo sguardo di Michelangelo, poeta del ‘dunque’: proposte esegetiche.” Italianistica 38, no. 2 (2009): 175–96. –  “Michelangelo e Dante.” Lunigiana Dantesca 12, no. 100 (October–December 2014): 10–16.

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The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

Milanesi, Gaetano. Le lettere di Michelangelo Buonarroti pubblicate coi ricordi ed i contratti artistici. Florence: Successori Le Monnier, 1875. Mirollo, James. Mannerism and Renaissance Poetry. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984. Montale, Eugenio. Michelangelo poeta. Edited by Armando Brissoni. Bologna: Boni, 1976. Nelson, John C. Renaissance Theory of Love. New York: Columbia University Press, 1958. Nencioni, Giovanni. “La lingua di Michelangelo.” In Fra grammatica e retorica: da Dante a Pirandello, pp. 89–107. Turin: Einaudi, 1983. Nolhac, Pierre G. La bibliothèque de Fulvio Orsini: Contributions a l’histoire des collections d’Italie et a l’étude de la Renaissance. Paris: Bouillon & Vieweg, 1887. Papini, Giovanni. La vita di Michelangiolo nella vita del suo tempo. Milan: Garzanti, 1949. Perrig, Alexander. “Bemerkungen zur Freundschaft zwischen Michelangelo und Tommaso de’ Cavalieri.” In Stil und Uberlieferung in der Kunst des Abendlandes 2:164–71. Acts of the Twenty-first International Congress of the History of Art, Bonn, 1964. Berlin: Mann, 1967. Procacci, Ugo. La casa Buonarroti a Firenze. Florence: Cassa di Risparmio di Firenze, 1965. Residori, Matteo. “‘E a me consegnaro il tempo bruno’: Michelangelo e la notte.” In Michelangelo poeta e artista: atti della giornata di studi (21 gennaio 2005), edited by P. Grossi and M. Residori, 103–23. Paris: Istituto Italiano di Cultura, 2005. –  “Sulla corrispondenza poetica tra Berni e Michelangelo (senza dimenticare Sebastiano dal Piombo.” In Les années trente du XVI siècle italien, Actes du Colloque International (Paris, 3–5 juin 2004), edited by D. Boillet and M. Plaisance, 207–24. Paris: Cirri, 2007. Rizzi, Fortunato. Michelangelo poeta. Milan: Treves, 1924. Robb, Nesca. Neoplatonism of the Italian Renaissance. London: Allen and Unwin, 1935. Romei, Danilo. “Bernismo di Michelangiolo [1984].” In Da Leone X a Clemente VII: scrittori toscani nella Roma dei papati medicei (1513–1534), 307–38. Manziana: Vecchiarelli, 2007. Rosand, David, and Robert Hanning, eds. Castiglione: The Ideal and the Real in Renaissance Culture. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983. Ryan, Christopher. The Poetry of Michelangelo: An Introduction. Madison, WI: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1998. Salmi, Mario. Michelangelo artista, pensatore, scrittore. Novara: Istituto geografico de Agostini, 1965. Saslow, James. Ganymede in the Renaissance: Homosexuality in Art and Society. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986.



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–  “‘A Veil of Ice between My Heart and the Fire’: Michelangelo’s Sexual Identity and Early Modern Constructs of Homosexuality.” Genders 2 (Summer 1988): 135–49. Scarpati, Claudio. “Michelangelo poeta dal ‘canzoniere’ alle rime spirituali.” In Invenzione e scrittura, 101–28. Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 2005; already in Ævum 77 (2003) 596–613. Simonetti, Carla, M. La vita delle Vite vasariane: profilo storico di due edizioni. Florence: Olschki, 2005. Smith, Albert. J. “Matter into Grace: Michelangelo the Love Poet.” In The Metaphysics of Love: Studies in Renaissance Love Poetry from Dante to Milton, 150–75. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Starn, Randolph. Donato Giannotti and His Epistolae: Biblioteca Universitaria Alessandrina, Rome, ms. 107. Genève: Droz, 1968. Summers, David. Michelangelo and the Language of Art. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981. Symonds, John A., ed. The Life of Michelangelo Buonarroti. 3rd ed. 2 vols. London: Nimmo, 1899. Tarsi, Maria, C. “Frammento di lettera a Vittoria Colonna e madrigale ’Ora in su l’uno, ora in su l’altro piede.’” In L’ultimo Michelangelo. Disegni e rime attorno alla Pietà Rondanini, 217–19. Milan: Silvana, 2011. –  “Per il commento delle rime di Michelangelo: il madrigale Gli sguardi che tu strazi.” Kunsttexte.de 1 (2013) 1–12. –  “Saggio di commento alle rime di Michelangelo: il madrigale ‘Te sola del mio mal contenta veggio.’” Italianistica 43, no. 3 (2014): 51–64. –  “Su alcune varianti delle rime di Michelangelo.” Rivista di Letteratura Italiana 31, no. 1 (2013): 47–65. Varchi, Bennedetto. Lezzione di Benedetto Varchi sopra il sottoscritto sonetto di Michelagnolo Buonarroti, fatta da lui pubblicamente nella Accademia Fiorentina la seconda domenica di Quaresima, l’anno 1546, in Due lezzioni di M(esser) Benedetto Varchi, nella prima delle quali si dichiara un sonetto di M(esser) Michelagnolo Buonarroti. Nella seconda si disputa quale sia più nobile arte, la Scultura o la Pittura, con una lettera d’esso Michelagnolo et più altri eccellentiss. Pittori et scultori sopra la quistione sopradetta. Fiorenza [Florence]: Appresso Lorenzo Torrentino, 1549. Pp 7–54. Vasari, Giorgio, and Paola Barocchi. La vita di Michelangelo nelle dedazioni del 1550 e del 1568. Milan: Ricciardi, 1962. –  Le opere di Giorgio Vasari. With annotations and comments by G. Milanesi. Florence: G.C. Sansoni, 1906 [ed. anast. Florence: Le Lettere, 1998]. –  Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori scultori ed architettori. Edited by Gaetano Milanesi. 9 vols. Florence, 1865–79. –  The Lives of the Artists. Translated by George Bull. London: Penguin Books, 1965.

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Vecce, Carlo. “Petrarca, Vittoria, Michelangelo. Note di commento a testi e varianti di Vittoria Colonna e di Michelangelo.” Studi e Problemi di Critica Testuale 44 (1992): 101–25. Voelker, Franz. “I cinquanta componimenti funebri di Michelangelo per Luigi del Riccio.” Italique 3 (2000): 23–44. Weeks, Jeffrey. Sex, Politics and Society: The Regulation of Sexuality since 1800. London: Longman, 1981. –  Sexuality and Its Discontents: Meanings, Myths and Modern Sexuality. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1985. Wilson, Charles H., and Aurelio Gotti. Life and Works of Michelangelo Buonarroti, the Life Partly Compiled from That of Antonio Gotti. London: Murray, 1876. Secondary Sources on Michelangelo’s Art Ackerman, James S. The Architecture of Michelangelo. London: Penguin, 1970. Aretino, Pietro. Lettere sull’arte di Pietro Aretino. Edited by Ettore Camesasca and Fidenzio Pertile. Milan: Edizioni del Millione, 1957. Barocchi, Paola, ed. Trattati d’arte del Cinquecento. 3 vols. Bari: Laterza, 1960. Ciulich, Lucilla B., and Pina Ragionieri. Michelangelo: grafia e biografia: Disegni e autografi del maestro. Florence: Mandragora, 2002. Clements, Robert J. Michelangelo e le idee sull’arte. Translated by E. Battisti. Milan: Il Saggiatore, 1964. –  Michelangelo’s Theory of Art. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963. de Tolnay, Charles. The Art and Thought of Michelangelo. New York: Pantheon, 1964. –  Corpus dei disegni di Michelangelo. 4 vols. Florence-Novara: Istituto Geografico de Agostini, 1975–80. –  Michel-Ange. Paris: Flammarion, 1970. –  Michelangelo: Sculptor, Painter, Architect. Translated by Gaynor Woodhouse. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975. –  “Michelangelo Studies. I. Newly Found Autographs of Michelangelo in America.” Art Bulleti. XXII, no. 3 (1940): 127–30. De, Vecchi P., and Gianluigi Colalucci. Michelangelo: The Vatican Frescoes. New York: Abbeville Press Pub, 1997. Hartt, Frederick. Michelangelo: The Complete Sculpture. New York: Abrams, 1968. Hibbard, Howard. Michelangelo. New York: Harper and Row, 1974. Hirst, Michael. Michelangelo and His Drawings. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1988. Hollanda, Francisco de. Four Dialogues on Painting. Translated by A.F.G. Bell. 1928. Reprint. London: Oxford University Press, 1979. Holroyd, Charles. Michael Angelo Buonarroti. London: Duckworth, 1911. Jacks, Philip J. Vasari’s Florence: Artists and Literati at the Medicean Court. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.



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Joannides, Paul. The Drawings of Michelangelo and His Followers in the Ashmolean Museum. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. –  Michel-Ange. Elèves et copistes. With the collaboration of V. Goarin and C. Scheck. Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2003. Murray, Linda. Michelangelo: His Life, Work, and Times. London: Thames and Hudson, 1984. Oremland, Jerome. Michelangelo’s Sistine Ceiling: A Psychoanalytic Study of Creativity. Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1989. Panofsky, Erwin. Idea: contributo alla storia dell’estetica. 1924. Florence: Le Monnier, 1996. –  Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance. New York: Oxford University Press, 1939. Parker, K.T. Catalogue of the Collection of Drawings in the Ashmolean Museum. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956. Partridge, Loren, Fabrizio Mancinelli, and Gianluigi Colalucci. The Last Judgment: A Glorious Restoration. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1997. Popham, A.E., and Johannes Wilde. The Italian Drawings of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries in the Collection of His Majesty the King at Windsor Castle. London: Phaidon, 1949. Seymour, Charles. Michelangelo’s David: A Search for Identity. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1967. Smyth, Craig H., and Ann Gilkerson. Michelangelo Drawings. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1992. Steinberg, Leo. “The Metaphors of Love and Birth in Michelangelo’s Pietàs.” In Studies in Erotic Art, edited by Theodore Bowie and Cornelia V. Christensen, 231–338. New York: Basic Books, 1970. –  Michelangelo’s Last Paintings: The “Conversion of Saint Paul” and “The Crucifixion of Saint Peter” in the Cappella Paolina, Vatican Palace. New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Varchi, Benedetto. Due lezzioni. Florence, 1549. Reprinted in Trattati d’arte del Cinquecento, edited by Paola Barocchi. 3 vols. Bari: Laterza, 1960. Translated by John Addington Symonds in his Renaissance in Italy. Vol. 2. New York, 1893. Von Einem, Herbert. Michelangelo. Translated by Robert Taylor. London: Methuen, 1973. Wallace, William E. Michelangelo: Selected Scholarship in English. New York: Garland, 1995. –  “Studies in Michelangelo’s Finished Drawings, 1520–34.” PhD diss., Columbia University, 1983. Wilde, Johannes. Italian Drawings in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum: Michelangelo and His Studio. London: British Museum, 1953. Wittkower, Rudolf. Sculpture: Processes and Principles. London: Penguin Books, 1991.

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PART TWO

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Joseph Tusiani: A Biographical Profile anthony julian tamburri

Two languages, two lands, perhaps two souls ... Am I a man or two strange halves of one? “Song of the Bicentennial”1

Joseph Tusiani (San Marco in Lamis, 14 January 1924 – New York, 11 April 2020) represents a unique profile within the history of Italian immigration to the United States. He arrived with his mother on 6 September 1947 on what could have been a short visit. Instead, they remained. Tusiani, over the more than seven decades he spent in New York, developed into the polymath that he became. Poet, first and foremost, prose writer, essayist, and translator, Tusiani was the true award-winning scholar and intellectual many aspire to be. Professionally, Tusiani’s university teaching career began at the College of Mount Saint Vincent in 1948; then, in 1971, he moved to Lehman College (The City University of New York), where he remained until his retirement in 1983. From a cultural perspective, Tusiani worked assiduously throughout his adult life in all arenas of the literary world, and with great success as well. In his introduction to Tusiani’s If Gold Should Rust, Felix Stefanile spoke about how this “pensive drama … though not openly representative of what he does, in his poems, in his translations (a veritable oneman industry), his poetry in Latin and Italian, his essays and lectures, still depict certain steady aspects of his style that have, as a matter of fact, never varied” (emphasis added).2 Tusiani’s work as a poet, especially, has been recognized over the past sixty-plus years on various levels: regional, national, and international. In 1956, in fact, the Poetry Society of England bestowed upon Tusiani its prestigious Greenwood Prize, the first time ever awarded to an American poet. How uncanny, having arrived in the United States

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in 1947, that nine years later he is the first “American” to win such a prestigious award. Further still, in underscoring the immigrant aspect here, is that the poem for which he won had been composed after his first trip back to Italy in 1954, “The Return.”3 Additional awards and other distinguished citations and appointments followed. He held the office of the Director of the Catholic Poetry Society of America as well as Vice President of the Poetry Society of America. In 1963, the Steuben Glass Co. had invited thirty-one of its sculptors to visualize in crystal the poems of the thirty-one best-known American poets of the time; Dr. Tusiani was one of these poets. Then, in 1968, he won yet another most esteemed award, the Poetry Society of America’s Alice Fay di Castagnola Award for his work in progress, If Gold Should Rust, the above-mentioned play in verse. The accolades followed. During the early 1960s then President Kennedy invited Tusiani to the White House to read from his poetry, a recording of which is housed in the Archives of the Library of Congress.4 In 1986, the American Association of Teachers of Italian nominated him as the first recipient of the AATI Distinguished Service Award. In subsequent years other recognitions followed, numerous still from Italy, which honored him in Rome on his eightieth birthday. Likewise, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs bestowed upon him its “Premio Italiani all’Estero.” Within the last decade of his life distinguished recognitions continued. In 2007, he was presented with the Keys to the City of Florence for his contributions to the English-speaking world’s knowledge of Florentine poets from Dante and Boccaccio to Petrarch and Machiavelli, including his The Complete Poems of Michelangelo (1959), now reprinted here. While his translations are too numerous to list, I would mention here Luigi Pulci’s Morgante, which, like his translations of Michelangelo, first introduced this epic poem to the English world five centuries after its original publication. In 2015, Lehman College (CUNY) bestowed upon him its Distinguished Accomplishment in Literature Award. Further still, New York governor Andrew Cuomo named Joseph Tusiani the “New York State Poet Laureate Emeritus in Recognition of Contributions to International Literary Community.” I stated at the outset that Tusiani has worked assiduously in all arenas of the literary world. Noteworthy in this regard is that his versatility is not limited to genre; as a prose writer and essayist, he had a long and successful record in both Italian and English. One need only peruse his bibliography to comprehend how productive he has been in these two genres as well; his literary acumen and his rhetorical genius in both languages simply astound. Further still, it is, indeed, within the arena of verse writing that Tusiani is a poet – and I underscore – in four



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different languages: Italian, English, Latin, and his Gargano dialect of northern Puglia. Poetry, to be sure, is the genre to which he has dedicated the majority of his literary prowess. In this regard, his books of poetry published both in the United States as well as in Europe number forty-eight; this does not include the dozen more of prose and essays. Indeed, the above-­mentioned honor of New York State Poet Laureate Emeritus was bestowed on him in recognition of his achievements in American and Italian literature, a linguistic talent not many possess at such an aesthetic level. That said, I would recall here that his poetry in Latin and in dialect have also garnered him international recognition. His prolific writing in Latin verse – eight books in this one language – and its reception among the critics have, for instance, categorized him as the greatest Neo-Latin poet who “give[s] rise to a poetic idiom sui generis, which, moreover, excellently voices Tusiani’s own perception of our tremenda aetas and his search for a new language that could overcome the conflict between his native Italian and the English, the conflict between two cultures.”5 The excellence of Tusiani’s poetry in both Italian and English has attracted the critical attention of many, as proven, in one sense, by the numerous above-mentioned awards and recognitions. The manifestation of such prominence is particularly evidenced by the long tradition of critical writing on Tusiani’s work; a plethora of articles has been published on his work, an impressive number of monographs has also appeared, and an abundance of doctoral dissertations has materialized, especially on his writing in Italian and in English. Tusiani’s poetry is both personal and universal. Up until his death at ninety-six years of age, he continued to write on an array of themes. He has, over the years, addressed his own condition of the migrant, the individual who moves from one geo-social zone to another, while facing the challenges of insertion and acculturation in his host country. He has, in like fashion, addressed the overall complexities of the human condition in all of its facets: old, young; native, foreign; illiterate, educated; to mention a few. And he has accomplished all of this while engaging a linguistic and rhetoric strategy that is always fetching and enthraling for his reader. Both content and form combine in Tusiani’s work to create a composition that exhibits a melodic refinement and principled depth that shed light on the seemingly commonplace phenomena that surround us on a daily basis. His work awakens us, that is, to the wonder of the quotidian. Tusiani’s work is clearly formed by an expansive vision that encompasses both acute understanding of humankind and creative artistry. He aptly re-creates those moments of historical realities that move the

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reader to ponder more profoundly the situation presented within his poetry and, hence, to arrive at a more enlightened space. That said, then, as a good deal of Tusiani’s work is set within his own personal experience of migration, it consequently brings to the fore all that it pertains, creating, in the end, a historical context and a multicultural engagement. His is a poetry, in the end, that inspires his reader to ponder the quotidian, contextualize it within the greater scheme of events, and, ultimately, to acquire a more discerning vision of humankind: a poetry, namely, that stimulates the reader’s desire for more knowledge and hence enhances their thinking. Tusiani’s poetry remains relevant today precisely because he is able to particularize the universal and universalize the particular.6 The fact, further still, that much of his work is couched in his own experience as an Italian in America only renders his poetry more powerful, especially today, precisely because it sets up a context for the necessary comparison of past twentieth-century mobility with what we have now been experiencing these last twenty-plus years with regard to the massive migration crossing the Mediterranean. This, along with the absolutely unique multilingual lyrical prowess, qualifies Joseph Tusiani to occupy the position he does in our developing history of poetry in both English and Italian. His not only entertains, as some, like T.S. Eliot, say poetry should, but in the end, it inspires his reader to think, the end goal of any literary work. We cannot ask for more; we can only hope that the reader, fundamentally, engages.

“The Michelangelo Man”: An Interview with Joseph Tusiani, New York City, 19 October 2019 gianluca rizzo

On a crisp Saturday morning, I met Joseph Tusiani and Anthony ­Tamburri (whom I would like to thank for all his support and assistance in arranging this interview) at the former’s apartment in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. After shaking hands and a brief introduction (it was the first time we met in person) we got right to it. In editing and translating this transcript (the interview took place in Italian) I strived to maintain as much as possible the warm atmosphere of comradery that Tusiani was able to establish from the very start. The numerous offerings of biscotti, to be washed down with his legendary Amaro Centerbe (a bitter liqueur made of medicinal herbs), played a crucial part in doing that. Other perhaps wiser but certainly less sympathetic interviewers would have cut any references to these small material comforts. I elected to keep them: this is what Tusiani is referring to when he exhorts us to eat and drink throughout our conversation. rizzo: To start us off, I wanted to hear the story of your encounter with JFK. I know it has been printed elsewhere, but I really would love to hear it directly from you. tusiani: It was in 1960, April or May, I think, and the Democratic candidate had come to the College of Mount Saint Vincent, where I taught, looking for votes. It was an all-girls school, at the time, and it was a rather well-off school, with many wealthy girls in the student body. I remember they would come to pick them up by plane, for the weekend, and they would be off to vacations in Puerto Rico or other luxury resorts. As I said, JFK was looking for votes. We were a small College, and the faculty numbered fifty professors, more or less. Kennedy made a little speech, in which he promised victory for his party, and after that he was introduced to

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the faculty. We had all lined up, and he was shaking hands, moving from one to the next. That same day, I should say, the New York Times had published a review of my The Complete Poems of Michelangelo. When my turn came, I was introduced as Prof. Tusiani. JFK paused and said “Tusiani … wait a second, I know that name … you are the Michelangelo man, aren’t you?” And I said “Yes, I suppose I am.” “I didn’t know that man was a poet.” He said it like that, “that man.” I said: “Actually, he was an excellent poet.” “Will you come to visit me at the White House?” “I certainly will!” And then he left, and I thought “This is the kind of thing you say …,” but I didn’t really think it was going to happen. However, to my great surprise, when he became President he remembered me, and invited me to go to the White House. He said “Come and see me.” And so I went, and when I was there, he told me “See: I told you I would have invited you to the White House!” And this is it, my little adventure with JFK and the White House. rizzo: You and Michelangelo were like a good luck charm for Kennedy on his way to the White House … tusiani: I had great respect for that man. Then he didn’t quite turn out the way I hoped … rizzo: He read book reviews, for books that were outside his immediate areas of interest! That’s quite something … Speaking of the translation, why did you choose Michelangelo’s poetry? What drew you to it? tusiani: I chose it because it had never been translated before. The most recent translation, at the time, was a century old: Symonds had translated only the Sonnets. That’s why I called my book The Complete Poems, because it included also the madrigals, and everything else. It was a matter of novelty. rizzo: And after Michelangelo, then Tasso, Dante, … tusiani: Yes, the Ninfale fiesolano … rizzo: Exactly. So, how did you choose what to translate? What was the plan? tusiani: I would translate what wasn’t available in English. It was about the novelty, whether or not the works were new to an English-speaking audience. I would choose new works that had never been translated before. rizzo: I am asking also because we still use some of your translations. For instance, your Morgante, by Pulci, I still use it in my own classes.



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tusiani: It’s the only complete translation out there. But I am not the only one: think of Prof. Ballerini’s work, the books he publishes in his series, he even published the Straparola! That’s it: the novelty. I wanted to give to the literary world something that was not there before. But in the meanwhile, please, drink! Go on, drink! Otherwise it gets really boring: here I am, talking away, and all you can do is listen … better to drink something! Have you tried this Centerbe before? rizzo: I like amari very much, and this is particularly good, thank you! tamburri: Can I pour some for you, too? tusiani: Just a little, little bit … I shouldn’t. all: Salute! tusiani: This one burns, but then it also heals. You can feel the health rising up … Good, now have a cookie. rizzo: Thank you. Going back to your translations, and to an issue I find very interesting: what impact did these translations, and all the work you have done on Italian culture, have on the larger community, here in the US and in New York in particular? As these translations were being published (Pulci, Michelangelo, Tasso), did you see any impact around you? How was the community reacting? tusiani: The intellectuals and the aficionados were very interested. The others, who ever heard of Pulci?! That is why Pulci was not very successful, he was a complete unknown. “Carneade,… who was this fellow?!,” as Manzoni’s Don Abbondio famously said.1 Michelangelo, instead, was very well loved! Plus, in this case he was presented as a poet! Whereas, poor Pulci never had a chance to make it big. Yet, he is still around. rizzo: You are also, and perhaps more importantly, a poet in addition to being a translator. Do translation and poetry enhance one another? What is your experience? How does translation help you to be a better poet? If it helps at all … tusiani: I would say that the poet, by intuition, perceives certain nuances that would escape other people. So, he listens to the text, and then … (sharp inhale, as if looking for the right word) there! And this is important! rizzo: Then it helps to be a poet when one works as a translator. tusiani: Yes, yes. rizzo: Does it also work the other way? Is there a way in which translation can help to write poetry? tusiani: Yes, exactly, it’s not always clear to the poet or the translator what in his own text appeals to the public. He

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doesn’t know, he can’t put his finger on it. As a poet you are not aware of all the elements that become part of your creation. There are things that escape you. For instance, when I was translating the Morgante I came upon a verse I had never noticed before, since I still hadn’t digested the entire work. And I found a verse that surprised me: it seemed one of the most beautiful verse of Italian literature. It’s part of a soliloquy spoken by Ganellone, the character that betrays Carlo Magno. He is thinking back to all the evil things he did to poor Carlone, as he puts it, and how he’ll have to pay for them someday. We should remember that Pulci and Lorenzo de Medici went on a journey together once, to meet Ferrante of Aragon in Naples. During that journey, they may have visited Apulia, finding it infested by flies. However, what region in Italy wasn’t infested by flies at the time? I remember when I was a kid, they would hang those paper strips from the ceiling, the ones with glue on, to catch them. Anyway, going back to the Morgante, and Ganellone, the previous verse ended with “ingarbuglia” (“garble up”), and then Ganellone says: “Che fia? mort’io, mort’una mosca in Puglia” (“I’ll die – so what? A fly dies in Apulia”). This verse says everything about the precariousness of life. Beautiful. There are some verses that just strike you, whose beauty is hard to define. You can’t even explain why you find them beautiful. You don’t realize all the elements that come into play during the creative act. If you realized it, you’d be a critic. And as a critic, you wouldn’t be able to do the work of the poet. Poetry is a mysterious process, I would say. A mystery. Drink! Drink! Drink up and eat! rizzo: In order to translate a text properly, one must read it properly. When you need to translate something, you read it in a different way than you would if you had to write an essay about it. tusiani: Absolutely, yes. rizzo: That’s because you have to address all parts of the text, not just the ones you choose. tusiani: Yes, you almost have to become the text you are translating. A mystery, poetry is a true mystery. rizzo: What helps one to become a better translator, or a better poet? It seems to me that being outside of one’s land of origin – because of emigration or because of exile (as it was Dante’s case, for instance) – being away from one’s motherland helps you become a better poet. Would you agree?



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tusiani: Maybe, maybe. I say “maybe” because when one speaks of poetry “maybes” are in order. tamburri: And let us not forget that you write in four languages (English, Italian, Latin, and Apulian dialect). tusiani: That is right. Actually, they just published this little book of mine, my Spanish poems … it came out the other day, in Italy … tamburri: Really? Nice! tusiani: It’s a small thing, La gloria del momento (The glory of the moment).2 It’s mostly exercises … it came out the day before yesterday, and now I am a bit ashamed of it … tamburri: Sorry, Gianluca, I didn’t mean to interrupt. rizzo: On the contrary! I think this is very important! tusiani: The multiple languages can be explained because the poet is the one who is the first to marvel at the word, the word that attracts his attention, the fascination of the word … the real poet loves the word. rizzo: Multilinguism is another aid that poets can avail themselves of. tusiani: Yes, yes … I really hope this little book doesn’t make me look like a fool … rizzo: There was something else I wanted to discuss: you have been a protagonist and a witness to the events of Italian-American culture for a while. How have things changed over time? It seems to me that the way the Italian-American community looks at itself, and the way it is regarded by the rest of the US, have changed quite a bit. What do you think? tusiani: Well, I would say that most did not really take notice … until Francesco Durante, who unfortunately has left us recently, and who was one of the greatest scholars of our poetry … I remember when we met the first time, and he kneeled in front of me: “Tusiani!,” he said, and he really kneeled down. And I said, “Professor, please, don’t mortify me!” And he said: “With all you have done for Italian culture! In my booklet, you are mentioned at least ten times!” “Thank you.” Durante’s loss has been a big one for me … Did they finish the translation of that book? tamburri: Yes, they finished it. tusiani: Was there any celebration? tamburri: Yes, we organized something, but before spring we are planning something bigger to honour Francesco’s life. Did you get to meet him? rizzo: No, unfortunately I didn’t have the pleasure … tamburri: He translated, in the Nineties, several books by John Fante, and he was the one who introduced him to the Italian

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public, in a more authoritative way. And then he made an edition of Fante for the Meridiani Mondadori. Additionally, he published two volumes: Italoamericana I and II, two big volumes. The first dealt with travelers’ accounts from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The second volume begins in 1880, until 1943. The second is around one thousand pages long and, if I remember correctly, 80 per cent of it is originally in Italian, although it was written here in the US. This is something that connects with what we were saying earlier about being away, being outside of your motherland … and our own Tusiani, he is a quadrilingual writer … this is an important issue for us to explore. Also, don’t forget Tusiani’s three autobiographies, La parola difficile, La parola nuova, and La parola antica (The Difficult Word, The New Word, The Ancient Word), that have been recently collected by Cosma Siani and published by Bompiani as one volume. It came out a couple of years ago.3 rizzo: Many of the thoughts we think are influenced by the environment in which we live. I wonder, how did living in New York City influence your work as a poet and translator? tusiani: You just made me think of a line by W.H. Auden: “Poetry makes nothing happen.” When a poet dies, the only thing that happens is that a poet is no more, and people keep doing what they usually do, go to the bank, etc. rizzo: But what happens in a poet’s life influences what they write, doesn’t it? tusiani: It’s debatable. If a poet is not understood by anyone, is he not a poet anymore? If he is the only one believing in himself, what happens? I don’t know … rizzo: But if instead of living here in New York, you had lived in Los Angeles, would your poetry and your choices as a translator have been different? tusiani: I don’t think so. The first motivation was novelty: was it something new or did it exist already? When I remember Durante kneeling in front of me, it embarrassed me, but it also pleased me … like flies … “I’ll die – so what? A fly dies in Apulia” … life’s precariousness … but please, drink! It’ll re-energize you! Poetry truly is a mystery. rizzo: What are you reading these days? tusiani: Well, given my condition,4 these days, sometimes I read something and then, a moment later, I wonder if I read it or didn’t. You see, my life is quite difficult … yet, something saved



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me … I read the whole thing … here it is: Gradus ad Parnassum! This is what you read if you want to compose in Latin. Look at this copy: each page has my notes on it … all of them, you see? rizzo: Is there a progression between languages: Latin, Spanish, Italian …? tusiani: It’s a great question, you ask! I consider English a Romance language. rizzo: How do you mean? tusiani: Given how many words of a Latin origin there are. Remember John Florio’s so-called Italianate English. It resembles a Romance language. And if you want to write in Latin, you have to know all these words, the ones here in the Gradus ad Parnassum. rizzo: That’s also true for proverbs and idioms: at the time of Florio, they had entire manuals that translated Italian sayings, for the use of the English court. tusiani: That’s right. I read the whole Gradus, and that made me realize the wealth of Latin words contained in the English language. tamburri: Did you translate only poetry, or prose as well? tusiani: I never translated any prose. rizzo: Why never prose? tusiani: Because, when you translate poetry, you can include something of yours. That’s not the case for prose. One sits down and says: “Today I’ll translate from page such to page such; tomorrow, from here to there.” But with poetry it doesn’t work like that … at one point you run into an image and … (sharp inhale) … “how am I going to translate that?” It’s hard. Poetry is a mystery. Prose is a lot easier. rizzo: This is a bit of a strange question, but let’s see how it goes. It seems to me that translating from one language to another, let’s say from Italian into English, there is an effect not only on the target language, but also on Italian … I cannot really define what this effect is, but it seems to me it is there. What do you think? tusiani: (Shrugs) I would say yes … but then, if I think about it, I would say no … (smiles). We need another sip! I remember that aria from the opera “another sip,…” from Verdi’s Othello: “drink with me, drink with me!” I love music; I couldn’t live without music. Last year I enrolled in the conservatory. I know quite a few operas very well. At times, when some friends come over, and someone starts singing, I am usually one step ahead: I know the words, and I can anticipate them. I had enrolled in the

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conservatory, and I was supposed to start a few days later, and then … I haven’t been well. But you should drink some more! tamburri: Your degree is in English literature, right? tusiani: Yes, I wrote my dissertation on Wordsworth. tamburri: Was your source of inspiration mostly Italian, or English, or American? tusiani: I have a very simple answer to that. It all depends on the reaction to an action. For instance, if I see something and the expression “mannaggia!” comes to my lips, then my mind is already headed towards dialect. If the reaction is “what a tragedy!” then it goes a different way, and so on. There is no logical explanation. It is a mystery … tamburri: You came here in the US in 1947, and then you waited seven–eight years before returning to Italy, in 1954, right? tusiani: Bravo! Bravo! tamburri: Yes, I did my homework! (all laugh) And then, when you came back from Italy, you wrote that poem, The Return, in English, here in the US, right? tusiani: Yes. In English. And then it was translated in Italian with the title M’ascolti tu mia terra. tamburri: And this is the poem that won the British Poetry Society prize. You were the first American poet to win it. You came back from Italy, and wrote a poem in English. tusiani: Yes. And there was a very important woman with me, at that time: Frances Winwar.5 She had been my inspiration. I loved that woman, I loved her style. I envied her style. I wanted to write as she did. I was completely fascinated by her. She was very famous at the time. tamburri: She had already published several of her novels … and she had also translated the Decameron. tusiani: Exactly! That is a beautiful translation! And she was only a girl when she did it: she had written, in one of her books, that she was attending Columbia University, but it wasn’t true … she was only a girl. For some reason I still remember reading an article by Peter Bondanella on the Decameron, and he went out of his way not to mention her translation. That’s too bad. When they were about to publish that translation, they asked her if she preferred to receive a lump sum for the rights. She asked me: “Should we take the lump sum and take a trip to Italy, or should I take the royalties as they come in?” “I said, let’s take this lump sum and go to Italy!” And that’s what we did. She had so much class! What a style! And she was just twenty years old when she wrote



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that translation … there must be something innate, something inevitable involved in this mystery of poetry, something we cannot really explain. rizzo: Can one learn to write poetry? Or is it something you either have or don’t? tusiani: You have to have something innate, inside you. It is true for translation and even more so for poetry. But you’re not drinking … Drink! Eat! I’ll have a drop, too!

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Notes

Justified Envy: An Editor’s Note 1 Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad (Harford, CT: American Publishing Company, 1875), 287–8. Also available online: http://www.literaturepage. com/read/twain-innocents-abroad-205.html. 2 Francesco Berni, “Capitolo a Fra Bastian dal Piombo,” in Rime, ed. Danilo Romei (Milano: Mursia, 1985), 184. Also available online: https://it. wikisource.org/wiki/Rime_(Berni). The English translation is my own. 3 The Complete Poems of Michelangelo, trans. Joseph Tusiani (London: Peter Owen, 1960). 4 Die Dichtungen des Michelagniolo Buonarroti, ed. Carl Frey (Berlin: G. Grote, 1897); Michelangelo Buonarroti: Rime, ed. Enzo Noè Girardi (Bari: Laterza, 1960). Here I would like to recognize the excellent work by Iuri Moscardi, who painstakingly rearranged Tusiani’s translations, matching them with Girardi’s Italian. 5 The first text in Girardi’s edition, which would have been marked as G1, was not included in Tusiani’s translation, which was based, as we mentioned, on the earlier edition by Frey. The Complete Poems of Michelangelo Buonarroti 1 [See the editor’s introduction regarding the order given, in this volume, to Michelangelo’s poems (and Tusiani’s translation). By No. 109, Tusiani is referring to a set of poems that were given consecutively in the old edition, but that are here somewhat scattered. To insure continuity and intelligibility, we retained the original ordering, expressed as T 109-xx, with the last two digits indicating different texts or different versions of one same text.– Editor’s note] 2 [See note 1. – Editor’s note]

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Notes to pages 19–21

3 [Prof.] Guasti, who reminds us that this quatrain appears on a sheet on which a leg is sketched, thinks that, because of its complete and meaningful sorrowfulness, it should be considered a fully realized poem, not the beginning of a sonnet. 4 This sonnet, if not composed in 1504, is doubtless among Michelangelo’s juvenilia. A thin, feeble voice that could be that of any Petrarchist; yet something can already be felt which shows a restless lack of conventional smoothness. 5 Written probably at the end of 1507, this beautiful sonnet seems to anticipate or inspire Edmund Waller’s “On a Girdle.” Permeated with sensuality, it redeems itself into a rarefied air of gentleness and grace. It is of no importance to know who this woman might have been. In his Life of Michael Angelo Herman Grimm, perhaps appalled by what he considers an unexpected explosion of carnality, tries to convince us that “Michael Angelo has represented nothing extraordinary in this sonnet inasmuch as Domenico Ghirlandaio’s father, who was a goldsmith, is said to have designed this ornament, the ghirlanda aurea, in Florence.” But no scholarship can mar the beauty of this poem. 6 In his Life of Michelangelo Vasari writes that Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel was done “with utmost unpleasantness for he had to stay with his head up, and so badly had he ruined his vision that he could read letters and look at drawings only by raising them up above his head; and this lasted several months and I wonder how he could bear all that discomfort.” In this sonnet Michelangelo seems to joke about it but his humor betrays his bitterness and the effect is powerful. We are not yet sure of the identity of this Giovanni from Pistoia. The crookedness of the Assyrian bow will be mentioned again in another poem. Incidentally, John Addington Symonds transforms Michelangelo’s “harpy’s breast” into “my breast-bone visibly grows like a harp.” 7 According to Prof. Guasti, this bitter sonnet was written in 1506. Michelangelo had been commissioned by Pope Julius II to sculpt his famous monumental sepulcher. Because of that commission sculptor and pontiff clashed often and violently. In a letter (VI) addressed to ­Giuliano da Sangallo, papal architect in Rome, Michelangelo wrote: “Had I remained in Rome, my tomb would have come before the pope’s. That is why I fled.” Pope Julius was not too eager to remember that a sculptor could not obtain marble from the Carrara quarries without paying for it. Ambition and generosity did not go together. Michelangelo felt abused, and complained. Many years after Julius’s death he will write to Luigi del Riccio: “Enough of this. For thirty-six years I gave my faith, my work, myself to others, and what did I gain? Nothing. Painting and sculpture, faith and work, have ruined me, and my



Notes to pages 21–7

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future is black. Better it would have been if in my youth I had learned to make and sell matches: now I would not find myself in such a fury” (CCXXV). Notice the bitterness of the second tercet. Pope Julius being a della Rovere, and “rovere” meaning “holm oak,” the final line is most eloquent. 8 A madrigal composed not later than 1511. Its conceits bury all inspiration. I disagree with those critics, G.R. Ceriello among them, who went so far as to see religious fervor in the sixth line, which in the original is “O Dio, o Dio, o Dio!” To the Italian ear this does not sound at all like a prayer but like a humorous interjection. 9 Dante (Inferno, XXVII, 88; Paradiso, XVIII, 127–136; XXVII, 50–51), Petrarch, Savonarola had blasted the corruption of the Church in fiery invectives. Michelangelo in these lines is not less powerful. Symonds’s version translates as “fees of this foul sacrilege” what instead is “Christ’s blood that spurts to the stars.” I do not think this sonnet was written in 1496 during Michelangelo’s first sojourn in Rome, but rather in 1512 when Julius II thought more of wars than gospels. The fourth line in the original may also mean that Christ’s patience, too, is about to come to an end. Notice the dramatic finis, followed by that “Your Michelangelo in Turkey,” that is, no more in Rome but in a pagan land. 10 This madrigal can be assigned to the period 1505–1511. 11 This madrigal was set to music by Bartolomeo Tromboncini of Verona in 1518. 12 This clarifies the [following] dialogue. Michelangelo means, in other words: Fame captures and stops man through death but is, in turn, captured and stopped by man who chains her to his last action. 13 Prof. Piccoli writes: “One cannot say whether this is rhythmic prose deliberately written as such, or rather a first sketch to set later to verse. It is certain, however, that we have here a creation singularly close to our modern sensibility. This prose has an inner, powerful rhythm, a solemn, sad motion which makes this dialogue of life and death more tragic. We immediately think of Aeschylus, and yet the freedom of this rhythmic prose seems strangely of our age.” It was in 1523 that the new pope, Clement VII, had urged Michelangelo to finish his work of the Medicean Tombs, started in 1521. 14 This madrigal and these two fragments [G APPENDIX 21 T 20, G 16 T 21] can be read on the reverse of a sketch of the sepulchers for the Medicean Tombs and are therefore to be assigned to that period. 15 See note 14. 16 Incomplete and obscure, this sonnet appears on the reverse of a letter dated April 20, 1521 which Michelangelo received at Carrara from Stefano di Tomaso.

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Notes to pages 27–33

17 Written on the reverse of a letter from Giovanni da Udine, Easter 1522. Dante’s dark forest is too obvious; that is why I rendered “strada” as “wood.” The “forbidding sword” makes one think of an Eden lost. 18 Both this unfinished madrigal and this hasty conceit [G APPARATO A TESTO 19; T 16] were written on a sheet which bears on its reverse an architectural sketch, a note of expenses and the date 1522. 19 [Tusiani gave two versions of this text, an incomplete one (T 37), and a complete one (T 167). Following Girardi, we grouped the two versions and we gave them here one after the other. Here is Tusiani’s note to T 37. – Editor’s note] I do not think Frey was right in assigning these lines to the years 1518–1524. The mood is exactly the same as in the preceding stanzas, though the result is more felicitous. Much is here grotesque, but there is also charm in this vivid splash of colors. The Florentine Nencia seems to be caught in her least poetic moment by one who is eager to ridicule everything. See also [T 167; G 20] for the additional stanza of the “teats.” 20 See poem (and note) No. [T] 37 [note 19, just above]. The addition of the “teats” stanza completes, in my opinion, this humorous page. There are, however, seven lines of another stanza which, because of the illegibility of the original text, cannot be fully translated. I give here what I could make out of them. ... years ... like a phoenix in one ... none ... now complains and mourns ... famous or ancient son. ... in but one moment glory grows and fades ... there is no mobile thing that, the sun broken, ... cannot win death and change all destiny. I believe these lines to be a fragment of a different poem.

21 More than the meter, which is that of Tomaso da Celano’s Dies irae, dies ilia, the “etc” after the first eleven line strophe makes us think of a “song of penance” with refrain. Similar songs were popular in Italy before and after Savonarola’s days. Professor Frey says that “with these verses begins the last group of poems in this collection: they are the religious poems of Michelangelo’s old age.” [As we can see in the facing Italian, Girardi’s take on this text is slightly different. – Editor’s note] 22 Written after Vittoria Colonna’s death, this “canzone” is the sad meditation on love, life, and death, of a man nearing his eightieth year. There are, in this meditation, expressions of singular power, images of unusual beauty, and lines that are memorable. Here we find for the first time the tormenting thought of a double death – of the body and of the soul – which will soon be the theme of Michelangelo’s religious poems. To complete this poem or to make a finished “canzone” of it, Michelangelo’s



Notes to pages 33–45

23

24 25 26 27

28

29

30

31

32 33 34

35

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grandnephew added a few lines, which we have discarded. Cesare Guasti, on the other hand, thought of two different poems, the second consisting of the last two nine-line stanzas, – an opinion, this, which has also been discarded for various reasons. Both this sonnet and the fragment of another [G 24; T112] treat the subject of the preceding poem [G 22; T 110]. Michelangelo must have realized how the second sonnet [G 24; T 112] was turning out to be a cold list of baroque expressions and therefore decided not to complete it. See note 23. A “sonetto caudato” (sonnet with a tail) on love and old age. Of this poem we have two variants. I have followed Frey’s reconstruction of the text which seems to me better and more intelligible than Guasti’s. Definitely the beginning of a Sonnet. The seven lines appear on the reverse of a letter (October 8, 1525) from Sandro da Carrara to Michelangelo, then in Florence. It is the first of the poems in which the poet’s consciousness of sin and frailty turns to prayer and faith. This sonnet, which, according to some Michelangelo scholars, was written for Cavalieri, reminds one of Guido Guinicelli’s [sic] “Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore.” It would be too long to list here the reasons why it seems to me more plausible that it was written for Colonna. One of the most obscure fragments. Was Michelangelo thinking of drawing Vittoria’s eyes? Prof. Ceriello sees Michelangelo’s “advice to a painter who wants to sketch a human eye.” My version follows Prof. Guasti’s subtle, though at times risky, interpretation of this fragment in terza rima. Frey thinks this sonnet was inspired by young Gherardo Perini. Though “colui” of the last line excludes the possibility of the feminine gender, I see Love, the god, in “the one who took me, left me.” Petrarch’s madrigal, “Nova angeletta sovra tale accorta,” is, besides, too obvious not to be taken into consideration. Written on a paper bearing the address domino Michelangelo de Buonarotis sculptori dignissimo, Florentiae. The second tercet of [G 37; T 59] is in red pencil. See note 31. Even this unfinished sonnet is in red pencil on the reverse of a drawing of a nude. These first seven lines of a sonnet were found written, says Guasti, “with red pencil on a bit of a sheet which is part of a page of the Prestanze of the years 1470–72.” The thought is not clear. These two sonnets [G 41; T 31 and G 42; T 32], full of Petrarchan echoes, were written in 1529, judging by the fact that they both appear on a sheet on which an episode of that year is recorded. The woman to whom Michelangelo addressed them has never been identified.

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Notes to pages 47–55

36 See note 35. 37 Some critics saw in this sonnet the first of the Michelangelo poems for the handsome youth, Tommaso de’ Cavalieri. The theory is to be discarded inasmuch as the Buonarroti-Cavalieri friendship began in Rome two full years after the composition of this sonnet. The myth of the phoenix will recur in other poems; Michelangelo was fascinated by the fiery rebirth. On the same sheet (1529) appears the fragment, “Since Only through the Eyes,” in which, for the first time, we find a transient reference to the “file” of the sculptor – an image, this, which later will soar to the greatest heights of poetry. 38 See note 37. 39 In this fragment and in the sonnet that follows it [G 47; T 100] Michelangelo is closer to the right mood and the right word, but not yet there, for his voice and his hand are still trembling. He must have felt the intrusion of that “bark” if he suddenly interrupted his elegy. Even the sonnet, after the tender warmth of the first four lines, falls into something alien and cold. But we feel that Michelangelo’s great song is imminent. 40 In this sublime sonnet Michelangelo’s voice is unmistakable. The image of the hammer is new, even though both Guasti and Frey wanted to see a vague reference to a passage in Plato’s Cratylus. Each stroke of the hammer is felt and worlds rise bright from the incandescent anvil. It almost seems impossible that all the splendid life of the two quatrains is only a preparation for the tragic darkness of the sestet. No one had ever thought of death as an invisible, unexpected thief snatching the hammer from the uplifted hand of the smith. The moan of the last line seems to fill the now funereal smithy. The note that follows this sonnet [T 102; G 266] is, I believe, a thought for another poem which Michelangelo would have liked to write on the same subject. The name Lionardo has never been explained. 41 See note 39. 42 Dante has exactly the same thought in Paradiso, IV, 76–78. 43 The three parts of this poem, rather than an unfinished “canzone,” seem to me three different madrigals on the same subject – time and death. This will be one of the themes of Michelangelo’s greatest poetry. 44 Guasti says that this fragment was found “on the reverse of an undated letter from Figiovanni to Michelangelo on which is mentioned a Magdalen painted by Buonarroti for the Marquis del Vasto.” Apparently the beginning of a sonnet, the poem is complete as it is. The temptation of suicide is strongly felt in the last line, because of which we soon forget Petrarch’s echoes (“S’io credessi per morte essere scarco”). 45 Written after the siege of Florence (1530), these ottava rima stanzas are a mixture of humor, scorn, sadness, conventionalities and pre-baroque preciosities. It is not improbable that Michelangelo might have wanted



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to forget, through this long rhymed exercise à la Berni, the tragedy of his beloved city. But two lines are of great interest to us: Perhaps I thought I, too, would stand a chance To be a poet and to reach some height.



46

47

48 49

50

[Tusiani’s translation, being based on Frey’s edition of Michelangelo’s poems, is missing a stanza that is given, instead, in the Girardi edition we are using here for the facing text. – Editor’s note] In Guasti’s opinion, this is the last stanza of [G 54; T 36]. Frey, on the other hand, considers it a poem addressed to Cavalieri. But Prof. Piccoli’s theory sounds more convincing: “there is here neither the conceptual link to the stanzas of [G 54; T 36] nor the usual gravity of style in which Michelangelo addresses his young friend.” Both fragments [G 56; T 41 and G 57; T 42] appear on a letter of 1532 and were doubtless addressed to Tommaso Cavalieri. See following note 49 [to G 58; T 43]. See note 47. This is the first of the “Cavalieri” sonnets. I must here quote a passage from Condivi’s Life of M. Buonarroti, XLV: “He also loved the beauty of the body, as one who knew most about it; and so much he loved it that some people, gross and carnal and incapable of love for beauty that is not lascivious and dishonest, dared find ground for evil thoughts and an erroneous opinion of him; as if Alcibiades, a very handsome youth, had not been most dearly loved by Socrates and had not felt, whenever he left his presence, as though he parted from his own father.” One of these people, gross and carnal, was Pietro Aretino, always ready to wield his poisonous pen. Michelangelo himself must have heard the malicious rumor for in another sonnet [G 83; T 64] he will sadly and scornfully pity those who could not soar from the earthly to the celestial. The very end of this poem tells Cavalieri, as if to warn him, of the nature of Michelangelo’s longing. We shall, however, read poems in which this “longing of the mind” is only expressed in terms of spasmodic flesh and in images of vehement sensual passion. But Michelangelo is titanic in all manifestations of life, so that he alone will be capable of so burning a thought for Cavalieri as the one recorded in sonnet [G 94; T 66]. In these three sonnets [G 59; T 44, G 60; T 45, and G 61; T 46], written on a letter (August 5, 1532) which Michelangelo had received from Giuliano Bugiardini, a Florentine painter, his friendship for Cavalieri is seen and sung as a marriage of true minds, a lesson in heavenly beauty, and a token of salvation, respectively. If we forget the Platonic breath that vivifies the lines, the literal meaning of the poems is open to conjectures of a different nature. “A hidden sorrow is a double woe” seems particularly susceptible of various interpretations.

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Notes to pages 63–77

51 See note 50. 52 See note 50. 53 In these two sonnets [G 62; T 109-87 and G 63; T 109-88] the poet uses new images to celebrate the purifying virtue of his lady (Vittoria). The last line of the second is an untarnishable gem. Only Michelangelo could have written such praise of a woman. [For an explanation of the T 109-1 – T 109-105 series, see note 95. In this edition, following Girardi’s edition of Michelangelo’s complete poems, the series has been scattered and reorganized. – Editor’s note] 54 See note 53. 55 The last line is obscure. 56 This powerful and beautiful poem, the first of the religious sonnets interspersed in this collection, is written on the reverse of Figiovanni’s letter to Michelangelo, dated November 23, 1532. In the twelfth line I have a Christ which is not in the original; a liberty which seems to me warranted by the dramatic abruptness of “Tu sol se’ buon.” The very last line is among the most quoted verses in Italian literature. 57 These stanzas which sing the pleasures of rustic life were written after 1556. It seems to me that two works especially – Luigi Alamanni’s Coltivazione dei Campi and Luigi Tansillo’s ll Podere – inspired Michelangelo. Vergil’s Georgics was not neglected during the Renaissance for Poliziano’s Stanze had revived the taste for this Latin classic. Michelangelo’s grandnephew includes these stanzas among the humorous poems. 58 Only the Michelangelo of the Last Judgmentcould have written these stanzas. Michelangelo junior wrote: “This giant may symbolize Furor, and the woman. Pride, and the offspring, the seven mortal sins.” Whatever the interpretation, the poet’s vision is high and of epic proportions. 59 These two fragments [G 69; T 70 and G 70; T 71] are the end and the beginning of a sonnet, respectively. [Girardi, instead, identified a different context for T 71 ; we give his text in the following footnote to G 70; T 71. – Editor’s note] 60 See note 59. [As announced in the previous note, Girardi provides a larger context for the fragment translated by Tusiani. Here it is: Crudele stella, anzi crudele arbitrio che ’l potere e ’l voler mi stringe e lega né si travaglia chiara stella in cielo dal giorno [in qua?] che mie vela disciolse, ond’io errando e vagabondo andai, qual vano legno gira a tutti e’ venti. Or son qui, lasso, e all’incesi venti convien varar mie legno, e senza arbitrio solcar l’alte onde ove mai sempre andai.



Notes to pages 77–81

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Così quagiù si prende, preme e lega quel che lassù già ’ll’alber si disciolse, ond’a me tolsi la dote del cielo. Qui non mi regge e non mi spinge il cielo, ma potenti e terrestri e duri venti, ché sopra di me non so qual si disciolse per [darli mano?] e tormi del mio arbitrio. Così fuor di mie rete altri mi lega. Mie colpa è, ch’ignorando a quello andai? Maladetto [sie] ’l dì che ïo andai col segno che correva su nel cielo! Se non ch’i’ so che ’l giorno el cor non lega, né sforza l’alma, ne’ contrari venti, contra al nostro largito e sciolto arbitrio, perché […] e pruove ci disciolse. Dunche, se mai dolor del cor disciolse sospiri ardenti, o se orando andai fra caldi venti a quel ch’è fuor d’arbitrio, […], pietoso de’ mie caldi venti, vede, ode e sente e non m’è contra ’l cielo; ché scior non si può chi se stesso lega. Così l’atti suo perde chi si lega, e salvo sé nessun ma’ si disciolse. E come arbor va retto verso il cielo, ti prego, Signor mio, se mai andai, ritorni, come quel che non ha venti, sotto el tüo grande el mïo arbitrio. Colui che sciolse e lega ’l mio arbitrio, ov’io andai agl’importuni venti, fa’ mie vendetta, s’ tu mel desti, o cielo. ]

61 The mention of “the Poet’s apothegm about Pistoia” brings to mind Dante’s invectives against Pistoia (Inferno, VI, 74; XV, 67–69; XXIV, 126; XXV, 10–12). In sonnet [G 5; T 9] we have met a Giovanni from Pistoia but we do not know whether this sonnet, which seems to me a caustic wisecrack of a Florentine rather than an offensive message, is addressed to the same person. 62 Written for Tommaso Cavalieri. 63 This fragment is utterly incomprehensible in the original. My version is, consequently, far from making any claim to precision. To show the extreme difficulty of the passage, I [encourage the reader to examine the facing] Italian text. 64 This sonnet, most likely written to Tommaso Cavalieri, has several variants in the original text.

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Notes to pages 81–7

65 Written for Tommaso Cavalieri, this sonnet is of obvious Petrarchan derivation. 66 A sonnet [G 78; T 106] and a madrigal [G 111; T 107] probably written at the beginning of his love for Vittoria Colonna when, that is, Michelangelo had not yet succeeded in sublimating the torment of the flesh into a vision of celestial beauty. 67 There is no false modesty at all in Michelangelo’s expression, “awful paintings.” He not only did not consider himself a painter, as we know, but in this instance, he was also convinced that his best drawings or sketches could never match the greatness of Vittoria’s poetry. We, of course, disagree with his high estimate of her verse. 68 The beauty of Vittoria’s eyes haunted Michelangelo. There is hardly a madrigal in which they are not mentioned. 69 For Tommaso Cavalieri. There is among these innocuous, Petrarchan echoes the simile of the “stone” which, though still undeveloped, is new. 70 See note 69. 71 See note 69. 72 Francesco Berni had sent Sebastiano del Piombo one of his brilliant ­capitoli, full of praises for Michelangelo. The friar-painter showed it to all his friends, from Pope Leo X (“the major Medic”) to Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici (therefore, the “minor Medic”), his secretary Francesco Molza (“the one who keeps the things most recondite”) and Monsignor ­Pietro Carnesecchi (“Monsignor Meat-still-seasoning-in salt”). The verses finally reached Michelangelo who, moved by Berni’s high praises, answered, also in terza rima, in Fra Bastiano’s name. Here is Berni’s letter. Father, to me more reverend than those Who have the title of “Most Reverend” And whose high reverence no person knows; Good Father, reputation, ornament Of friars that have been and that will be, Including all the Jesuits I resent; How have you been all this long time? And he Who is no woman yet I love so much, – How is he whose great heart binds you and me? Michel’Agnolo Buonarroti is such That, when I see him, I would like to light Candles to him, burn incense as in church; And this, I feel, would be both good and right, Better, that is, than wearing, to thank God For our health gained, a garment red or white.



Notes to page 87 I think he is, more than a demigod, The idea of sculpture and of architecture, As Astraea, of justice. And I add That, should one make a statue, or a picture, Of both these arts, one would but choose that man As model: there’s no better thing in nature. You know yourself his merits – how he can Judge, think, with wisdom and discretion, And how truth, good, and beauty are his plan. I saw a couple of his compositions And, though I’m ignorant, I want to say I read them all in Plato’s high ambitions. Apollo and Apelles live today: Enough of you, sweet pallid violets, And liquid crystals, and fair beasts astray: You babble words, but only he writes thoughts. So, modern chiselers (and even old), Go, all of you, to the sun and take notes. And, incidentally, let me sting and scold, Reverend Father, those who try your trade And whose vain paints to women should be sold: For you alone by nature are so made As to be close to him, and rightly so, Your friendship being of so high a grade. To save him from old age and all its woe, I wish we found the cauldron where, one day, Medea cooked and cooked her father-in-law. Would that Ulysses’ wife still lived today! She would make you and him so young again, You would outlive Tithonus and be gay. Well – it infuriates me, gives me pain, To think that you, who make stone, wood, alive, Should die just like two asses dull and plain. All oaks and olive trees will, ah, survive, With crows and ravens, dogs of any kind, And other animals that should not live. But this my reasoning is vain and blind, –

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Notes to pages 87–91 So I shall stop, or they will say we are Lutherans or Mamelukes in soul and mind. Humbly I beg you. Father, from afar, To greet my friend, our Michel’Agnolo, And tell him that I need his love like star. By the way, you may let the Pontiff know That here I am, and love him, and adore him As Master and Christ’s Vicar. When you go To consistory, all Cardinals before him You’ll see, I hope: to three of them go close, Give them my greetings, of my love assure them: Who the three are, your mind already knows. Don’t tell me now: ‘You pest!’ You know too well How in that place each ceremony goes. Monsignor Carnesecchi you will tell I only envy what he writes, but hate All those who to his ears are daily bell. I still remember the fried squash I ate Last year with him; its beauty – tell him this – My gluttonous glances still can contemplate. And give my love to one I strongly miss – To that virtuous rascal, Molza dear, Who has become, toward guiltless me, remiss. Without him, I have lost an arm, I fear; Each day I write to him, but I destroy My notes that are plebeian, and not clear. Ask him to tell his Master that my joy Will be to serve him from now on, both far And near, and that his grace I most enjoy. Be well, and don’t work hard, even if you are Tempted to paint each charming face you see: O my sweet Father Bastian, take good care! I’ll meet you soon in Ostia near the sea.

73 This deeply moving tribute to Michelangelo’s father (dead between the years 1534–1538 at the age of almost ninety) reminds us of all the equally



Notes to pages 91–101

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moving letters in which the artist expresses his filial devotion and tenderness. Michelangelo’s fondness for his father and his attachment to his family are almost proverbial. Every mention of Lodovico di Buonarrota Simoni, “carissimo” or “reverendissimo padre,” is a song of pride and love. When he writes to him, or about him, he forgets cardinals and popes, his work and the whole world. Take his collected Letters and see how he blasts Giovan Simone, one of his brothers: “I have no doubt now that you are not my brother, for if you were, you would not threaten my father; you are, rather, a beast and as such I shall treat you … on the body of Christ! … I am capable of smashing ten thousand people like you if it is necessary. So, I have warned you” (XLV). Michelangelo had lost his brother Buonarroto a couple of years before his father’s death; about this member of the Buonarroti family very little is known. The poem was left unfinished and I think no translator should try to complete a poem which was interrupted by an outburst of tears. Michelangelo’s grandnephew finished this poem with these lines: “Singing to our high Maker happy psalms, / In our salvation we shall be made one.” A fervent prayer to God. Both sonnets [G 88; T 109-18 and G 89; T 109-19] were written for Tommaso Cavalieri. See note 75. This sonnet, in which the exaltation is noble and fervid, seems to me directed to Colonna, not to Cavalieri. The last line sounded vulgar and incomprehensibly bold to J.A. Symonds who eliminated, in his translation of it, the word “sputo” (saliva) perhaps to please the taste of Victorian England. Yet the beauty of the sonnet culminates precisely in that strong image, for, being in love, Michelangelo feels almost like another Christ. “And my saliva heals all poisonous sores,” reminds us of the divine “Ephpheta.” Sense, heart, soul and reason are the four elements of this madrigal which Michelangelo turns into four charming conceits. The poem was probably to be set to music. In a letter to Luigi del Riccio Michelangelo wrote: “Arcadente’s music is a beautiful thing, they say; therefore, in accepting his invitation I have pleased both myself and you who asked for it (the madrigal). But I should not like to be ungrateful. So I beg you to think of some gift for him, either in draperies or money, and let me know about it …” Arcadente (there is charm in this Italian transformation made of “Arch” and “tooth”) is none other than the Dutch composer ­Jacob Arcadelt (c. 1514–c. 1575) who lived in Italy most of his life. His five books of madrigals are still remembered and enjoyed. The “fair face” is Tommaso Cavalieri’s.

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Notes to pages 101–7

79 The similes are here superb and powerful. Michelangelo’s passionate nature reveals itself in all its violence. There is nothing macabre in the sestet; there is only the man who had already painted himself on a bit of hanging skin in the apocalyptic vision of the Sistine Chapel. The sonnet is for Cavalieri, and so is the fragment that follows it [G APPENDIX 31; T 67]. 80 Probably written for Colonna, the sonnet owes its inspirations to ­Petrarch’s Canzoniere. 81 The terza rima pattern makes us think, perhaps, of the beginning of a capitolo. The source of its inspiration is uncertain. 82 Benedetto Varchi, speaking of this sonnet, had this to say of Tommaso Cavalieri who inspired it: “a most noble Roman youth in whom I found, when I was in Rome, so much charm of manners (besides his incomparable physical beauty) and so much wisdom and grace that he deserved, and still deserves, to be loved by those who knew him best” (cfr. Lezione, reproduced by Guasti). “Knight-at-arms,” in the last line, translates exactly, though with no indication of arms, Tommaso’s last name. 83 In this sonnet the words Febo (Phoebus) and poggio (hill) are mentioned twice. This has led more than one critic to believe that the poem was written for the youth Febo del Poggio, not for the dead Vittoria. In such instances a translator must choose between this and that interpretation or he will not know whether to render “sue penne” into “his” or “her wings.” Because of some links with a few madrigals in Poem No. 109 [T109-1-105 in Tusiani’s translation, now redistributed according to ­Girardi’s edition of Michelangelo’s poems], I am inclined to believe that the sonnet is for Colonna. 84 The mention of Febo and poggio recurs in this fragment. If Vittoria Colonna is to be excluded, who was Febo del Poggio? We do not know much about this Florentine youth, except that Michelangelo, upon the eve of his departure from Florence in December 1533, sent him a tender, almost heart-rending letter in which he begged him to believe still in his affection. Febo answered during the first half of January 1534, asking Michelangelo, in most reverent terms, for some money, and signing his letter, “Vostro da figliuolo (yours like a son), Febo di Poggio.” 85 Two of the greatest sonnets Michelangelo ever wrote [G 101; T 77 and G 102; T 78]. There is no trace of Petrarchism in these poems. The night is seen and felt with vision and sensitiveness unknown to the Renaissance. Every line is new and fresh; the imagery powerful; the poetic essence, high and unmatched. We come from darkness and must walk through it, but this terrifying thing called “night” is in turn terrified



Notes to pages 107–15

86 87

88 89 90

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by a firefly – and man is that spark of light which must triumph. In the second sonnet [G 102; T 78], Michelangelo captures and blends, almost in one breath, weariness of mortal flesh and readiness of undaunted spirit. See note 85. Whenever Michelangelo treats the theme of the night, his poetry attains sheer beauty. Darkness is his element, the habitat of his genius. A glowworm here – in sonnet [G 101; T 77], a firefly – is what fascinates the nocturnal vastness of his mind. Sonnet [G 104; T 109-21] was probably written for Cavalieri, but, I believe, the last line does not refer to one person in particular but to mankind in general, for Michelangelo says that he alone has been doomed to darkness. See note 87. This sonnet was published by B. Varchi in 1550 (Due Lezioni, Florence). It is not found in the manuscripts. This moving sonnet concludes the number of poems which Michelangelo had collected for publication. Its last line – and Michelangelo wanted it to be last – is eloquent and should dispel all malicious or hasty thoughts. Michelangelo’s love of earthly beauty is both need and desire for beauty that lives in God forever. Three more madrigals for Vittoria Colonna [G 107; T 109-99, G 162; T 109-97, and G 163; T 109-98]. In the first [G 162; T 109-97], tortured and far-fetched, Michelangelo asks whether a repented sinner finds in heaven more glory than one rewarded for never having sinned. In the second [G 163; T 109-98], also uninspired, he tries to explain why he must see Vittoria’s eyes as often as possible. In the third [G 107; T 109-99], not less derivative but somewhat better, the same “divine” eyes are praised and invoked. “Bernardo Buontalenti said that Michelangelo had painted on the staircase of his house in Rome, the skeleton of Death, in chiaroscuro, carrying on his shoulders a rough coffin on which these lines were written” (Michelangelo junior). See note 66. The 105 poems comprised in No. 109 are those which Michelangelo himself, urged by his dearest friends, had prepared for publication – which never took place in his lifetime. Critics have interspersed them freely in their editions of Michelangelo, following psychological or chronological criteria. I have adhered to Prof. Frey’s arrangement for one reason in particular – to give the reader an idea of what Michelangelo considered his best poems. This is of paramount importance to us for we understand how he thought of including in this collection mediocre sonnets and madrigals which he must have deemed

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101 102

103 104 105

Notes to pages 115–25 appealing to the Petrarch-flavored taste of his contemporaries, and how he excluded some of those poems in which we now see and hear the true and great Michelangelo. On the whole, however, his selection was good and well-balanced, ranging from the trite to the precious, from the rough to the humorous, and from the passable to the truly great and greatly inspired verse. [Tusiani appended this note to this first sonnet in the series, here marked G 112; T 109-1. In our volume we rearranged Tusiani’s translation according to Girardi’s edition of Michelangelo’s poems, thus the series devised by Tusiani has been scattered. In the present volume, the first poem belonging to this series is G 62; T 109-87. In addition to the general note above, Tusiani included a more specific comment on this, the first two poems of the series 109 [G 112; T 109-1 and G 113; T 109-2]. Here it is. – Editor’s note] Madrigals written for Vittoria Colonna. See the last part of note 94. According to Frey – but his reasoning is, in this case, rather captious – this madrigal is not for the Marchesa di Pescara. There is charm in this unfinished madrigal for an unknown, elegantlyattired, much-bejeweled lady. For Vittoria Colonna. The madrigals [G 116; T 109-4, G 117; T 109-5, and G 246; T 109-7] belong to different periods. See note 98. Prof. Piccoli calls this madrigal, dedicated to a woman whose identity has never been disclosed, “a strong and meaningful lyric, full of human and personal emotions.” One is tempted to disagree with his enthusiasm. We have here what Italians call “strambotto di dispetto” against some cruel-hearted woman. The remembrance of an intimate relationship with some woman is clearly expressed in the final sentence of the first madrigal. Michelangelo mentions in other poems the “ugliness” of his whole body. Herr Grimm thinks of a psychological trauma and traces it back to the Torrigiano incident. Michelangelo’s disciple, Ascanio Condivi, wrote this about it: “When he (Michelangelo) was a boy, one Torrigiano de’ Torrigiani, an ill-tempered, bestial man, with a blow of the fist almost ripped off the cartilage of his nose – so that he was taken home as halfdead.” (Op. cit.) The second madrigal seems inspired by the same woman. See the last part of note 102. Probably for Vittoria Colonna, though the mood is similar to that of the two preceding madrigals [G 121; T 109-12 and G 122; T 109-13]. See note 104.



Notes to pages 129–43

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106 These two madrigals [G 130; T 109-28 and G 131; T 109-29] were sent to Luigi del Riccio with this accompanying note: “Messer Luigi, I ask you, who have feeling for poetry, to shorten and improve one of these madrigals – that which seems to you less awful – for I have to give it to a friend of ours. Yours, Michelagnolo.” Such messages Michelangelo sent often, and not to Luigi del Riccio alone. 107 See note 106. 108 In [G 161; T 87] we read the lines: “Oh Love, you must be told that I envy the dead.” In this madrigal the thought is developed into a dialogue between Michelangelo and the blessed souls. The theme of old age begins to overcome that of love. The last four lines are throbbing with a sense of sorrowfulness that is only Michelangelo’s. 109 In Michelangelo’s manuscript this madrigal is followed by the dedication, “To Messer Donato his Michelagnolo.” This Donato alluded to is probably Donato Giannotti, a Florentine historian and author of the celebrated dialogue between himself and Michelangelo on the subject of Caesar, Brutus and Cassius in Dante’s Inferno. 110 Even this madrigal was sent to Luigi del Riccio for his opinion and revision. Michelangelo suggested the following variant: And so your burning glances Now feed my heart with every tear I shed– And for these tears I am alive, not dead.

111 Written probably for the same cruel-hearted woman, this madrigal expresses a thought common to all literatures; the pleasantness of hell if the beloved is still with us. 112 Written most likely for Vittoria Colonna. 113 See note 112. 114 These bitter madrigals [G 146; T 109-63, G 147; T 109-64, and G 147; T 109-64bis], perhaps three “strambotti di dispetto,” were written for the same stone-hearted woman. According to Guasti, 64 and 64bis [T 109-64 and G 147; T 109-64bis] are two different poems, but Frey has proved, rather convincingly, that they form one single madrigal and there is no political allegory between the lines. 115 See note 114. 116 See note 114. 117 For Vittoria Colonna. 118 Written for Vittoria Colonna, these three sonnets [G 150; T 109-100, G 259; T 109-101, and G 261; T 109-102] can easily be classified as poems of contentment in denial, token of eternal salvation, and certainty of immortality, respectively. 119 Starting with this sonnet, in which Michelangelo seems to have found in the very tools of the sculptor his new source of imagery, the following

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Notes to pages 143–51

twenty-five poems (through [T 108, here G APPARATO A TESTO 88]) were written for Vittoria Colonna. Michelangelo’s meeting with the noble, famous, and pious widow occurred probably in 1538. He was then sixty-three years old. On their chaste relationship much has been written both in prose and verse. Vittoria Colonna called Michelangelo “unique Master and most especial friend” and he called her “Signora Marchesa.” In her presence he seemed to be a different person, for she had the power to bring out the tender, timid child in him. Of such a magnetic charm everyone seemed to know for people came to her in order to catch a glimpse of the “divine” Buonarroti, too solitary and stern to be reached otherwise. This is how Francisco De Hollanda’s Dialogues on Painting were born.   Michelangelo’s letters to Vittoria are the document of a calm, noble passion for a woman who, while representing all perfection of womanhood on earth, mirrors divinity itself. But, more than his letters, his poems to her are the highest and deepest proof of his love, for, through verse more than through sculpture and painting, he had the illusion of being closer to the poetess, of becoming, rather, her very thought and breath, – poetry. For the full comprehension of this sonnet one should remember Marsilio Ficino’s influence on the neo-Platonism of the Renaissance. [In the present volume these sonnets are scattered, following the order given in Girardi’s edition; the reader who desires to retrace Tusiani’s steps can use the notations provided in parentheses. These sonnets go, as Tusiani mentions, progressively from the present one T 83, to T 108 (and therefore T 84, T 85, etc.). – Editor’s note] 120 This madrigal tries to clarify the thought in the preceding poem [G 151; T 83]. The structure of the original text is so tortured that we think Michelangelo had to work very hard on it. 121 One of the most beautiful madrigals, for Vittoria. The image is original and highly effective. 122 Michelangelo tells Vittoria Colonna that it is his luck that their love should be, in order to last beyond the death of their bodies, on a spiritual level. 123 One of the best-known madrigals for Vittoria Colonna. 124 The theme of love and death finds here accents of great, moving sincerity. Michelangelo had already passed his seventieth birthday. 125 This sonnet, which does not seem to me false at all, was accompanied by a letter to Colonna in which Michelangelo thanked her for her gifts and humbly apologized for being unable to think of something worthy of her. 126 Because of the word “mandato” (sent) written on the autograph of this sonnet many critics believe that the poem was sent to Vittoria soon after completion.



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127 Despite its few Petrarchan undertones, this poem reveals, especially in the strength of its beginning, all the sorrowful stature of Michelangelo. The poet knows that he has no more to borrow from the Petrarchists around him. 128 See note 91. 129 See note 91. 130 The first two of these three madrigals [G 164; T 94, G 165; T 95, and G 234; T 96] were doubtlessly composed in the years 1541–1544 while Vittoria Colonna was living in Viterbo. It seems to me that even the third is of the same period. 131 See note 130. 132 In the penultimate line I hear an echo of Catullus’ Carmen XIII; “… deos rogabis totum ut te faciant, Fabulle, nasum.” But Michelangelo has transformed it into a new and powerful image. 133 This madrigal has many variants. Frey’s reconstruction seems the best and most intelligent. 134 For the same cruel-hearted woman. 135 See note 134. 136 In this madrigal Michelangelo mourns a dead friend who had also been dear to Luigi del Riccio, to whom this poem was addressed. The last three lines mean: If he (our dead friend) is remembered in the act of turning his eyes, as he used to, towards his beloved land, this very remembrance increases our sorrow, as dry wood, fire. 137 The identity of this woman, “indomitable, wild,” is unknown. The final couplet seems a conceit but is, perhaps, Michelangelo’s way of reminding the world of his power. 138 The theme of his “ugliness” is turned to a conceit that stays on the verge of both humor and tragedy. 139 A madrigal most likely for the unknown, cruel-hearted woman alluded to in other poems. 140 Some critics, Prof. Foratti among them, have seen too many Petrarchan echoes in the structure of this madrigal, and rightly so. But they are wrong when they seem to imply that the sincerity of Michelangelo’s voice is hardly heard. 141 The quatrain is a clever pun on the name of the beautiful courtesan who died in Rome in 1543 and was sung by a good number of admirers. The sonnet is an answer to Gandolfo Porrino, a painter from Modena, who had asked Michelangelo to paint or sculpt the face of his beautiful mistress. Here is Porrino’s sonnet. O supreme Buonarroto, who gives fame To men and gods with both hammer and style, – May heaven make your fair great nest worthwhile

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Notes to pages 163–5 Living in and forever rid of shame – Oh, to my eyes grant peace and joy! I aim Neither at Gyges’ ring (a thing not vile) Nor at the golden fleece of the Colchian isle; What is in your power I ask and claim: The beauteous face of her who to mankind Was nature’s wonder and most happy show, – Leda’s daughter, Aeneas’ fair mother’s bliss; Or, if her forms were fairer and more kind, Reveal her heaven to us, let us know What her same beauty’s deathless concept is.

Note how Porrino does not mention painting at all and, to make his request more effective, tries to move Michelangelo by the mention of his beloved and most unhappy Florence, “the fair great nest.” Needless to say, Porrino was referring to Michelangelo’s first sonnet on Dante. 142 See note 141. 143 Cecchino (Francesco) Bracci, a fifteen-year-old lad of singular charm, died on January 8, 1544. Luigi del Riccio, his uncle (according to some critics, his cousin) had introduced him to all his friends in Rome, who fell in love with the handsomeness and the promising talents of the youth. When he died, all Rome mourned him and poems lamenting the grievous loss poured, solemn and pompous, rhetorical and sincere, from all parts of Italy (Il Lasca, Carlo Gondi, Donato Giannotti, Giovanni Aldobrandini, Fra Paolo del Rosso, and others). Michelangelo, too, mourned the lad whom he had known and loved. At that time in almost daily correspondence with Luigi del Riccio, he must have been requested to write as many epitaphs for the youth as his inspiration could take. So we have here forty-eight quatrains on the same subject, one epigram and one sonnet. Michelangelo started to work in earnest but as he felt his inspiration grow feeble, he made “everything fit in,” and accepted the various, tempting, little gifts with which Del Riccio remunerated him for each new epitaph. The notes that accompany these verses are, therefore, amusing and eloquent. To make “everything fit in” Michelangelo more than once resorted even to a pun on the name “Bracci” which in Italian means “arms.” Most of these quatrains remain in the realm of common and comfortable Petrarchities, yet now and then Michelangelo’s genius sparks in a sudden image or a powerful line. The main note of his later poetry is here already: old age, and love, and fear of death. I must now call the reader’s attention to [G 197; T 73-19]. The two-line variant, which follows it, shows clearly that Michelangelo knew something else about Luigi del Riccio’s admiration for the lad. But he too had once asked Luigi to inform him whether our idol (Cecchino), of whom he had dreamed,



144 145 146 147

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Notes to pages 165–99

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would encourage, or threaten, him. Michelangelo was living, at that time, at Macel de’ Corvi (“Slaughter-house of the Crows”) in Rome. [The last two lines are included in Frey’s edition but not in Girardi’s. They have been added to the italian, in brackets. – Editor’s note] See note 130. For Vittoria Colonna. Michelangelo junior says that he “thought” Michelangelo had sent this sonnet to the Marquise of Pescara together with his self-portrait. The idea is, more or less, that of Sonn No. 83 [G 151; T 83]. The “divine part” in the first line means the “intellect.” Sculpture is the first of all arts because God sculpted Adam. To be closer to God, the source of all creation, Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor, not a painter. Good deeds are the “only coin” by which man buys eternal life. The Michelangelo bust of Vittoria Colonna, which inspired this poem, has been lost. The sculptor pleads with some stone-hearted woman. Written probably after the death of Vittoria Colonna. See note 98. Giovanni di Carlo Strozzi was born in 1517 and died in 1570. He is the author of these four lines affixed, among many others, to the statue of Night when it was first shown to the public. Michelangelo answered with his now famous quatrain, giving vent to his sorrow over the loss of freedom of his beloved city. Herman Grimm has taken pains to discover a probable source of inspiration for the two quatrains in the Anthology and Philostratus, respectively. [Girardi does not include these lines in his edition. – Editor’s note] See note 154. In a note to this sonnet on Dante, Signor Ceriello writes: “It tells us how great Michelangelo’s love for Dante was, and how he felt his moral and artistic greatness and how he would have gladly accepted even his grievous exile in order to share his glorious destiny. No other voice was closer to Dante’s superb genius than this which gushes forth with rude strength from the sorrowful heart of the Titan in a vibrant, supreme desire for art and light.” Michelangelo, we may add, was the only Renaissance man who heeded Dante’s voice, neglected by others. His temperament was Dantesque. He said “cose,” not “parole” (things, not words), for his god was Dante, not Petrarch. See Longfellow’s Michael Angelo and Papini’s recent biography. In 1519 Michelangelo had offered his service for a tomb to the divine Poet. This is the first of Michelangelo’s two sonnets on Dante. Luigi del Riccio tells us that this is a political allegory. In the first part of the dialogue all the Florentine exiles speak; in the second, Florence, the beloved city oppressed by the tyrant, Duke Alessandro, answers.

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Notes to pages 199–207

158 This is the second sonnet on Dante, less fervid than the first (see [G 248; T 109-37]). Michelangelo must have been aware of its weakness for, in sending it to Donato Giannotti, he wrote: “Messer Donato, you ask for something I do not have.” 159 We do not know what brought the Michelangelo–del Riccio friendship to a sudden end. In 1544, a few months after Cecchino’s death, Michelangelo lay seriously ill in the house of Luigi, “The pope sent daily to inquire for him, and the cardinals themselves came to visit him” (Grimm, 11, 329). Del Riccio took such good care of his illustrious friend that he had the joy of hearing himself called by Michelangelo “the saviour of my life.” Then something must have happened. J.A. Symonds thinks of “some angry words about an engraving, possibly of the Last Judgment, which Buonarroti wanted to destroy, while del Riccio refused to obliterate the plate.” It was much more than this. In a fiery letter (cfr. G. Milanesi, Le Lettere di M, 1865, p. 520) Michelangelo told del Riccio he had not forgotten his kindnesses to him, yet he would have preferred death to shame. 160 According to Michelangelo’s grandnephew, these lines were written for Colonna. Luigi del Riccio’s answer to the poet, which follows, disproves the first editor’s opinion. Let no sweet kindness be Grievous among sweet friends, For this is what to me Seems the opinion of old sages: Things Imply equality, and that is why A friend is eager for a friend to die And to share prison, wealth, and fortune’s stings. Between myself and you No quarrel, then, must be: for friendship can All things on earth renew.

161 Michelangelo wrote this madrigal during a sleepless night. 162 Written for Vittoria Colonna in 1546. The one echo from Dante’s Inferno (XIII, 58–60) does not mar the spiritual exaltation of the poem. 163 For the first time we find in Michelangelo’s poetry a woman that is not all-beautiful. Let the heart be charitable, says the poet, and teach the eye patience and understanding, “for, looked at often, ugliness soon dies.” The moralistic tone of the madrigal is not displeasing when we think of those poems in which Michelangelo bemoans the “ugliness” of his own face. 164 This madrigal, one of the last written for Vittoria Colonna, reechoes what Michelangelo has said in other poems. 165 See note 118.



Notes to pages 209–21

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166 See note 118. 167 A new temptation of love in old age. The allusion to the “evening” after the “ninth hour” (the original line recalls the canonical Nones) is not sufficient, I believe, to establish any link with the beginning of Michelangelo’s love for Vittoria Colonna. The madrigal gains in meaning and strength if assigned to the years 1550–1555. 168 The word “Mandato” makes of this madrigal an official ‘Envoy’ to Vittoria Colonna. Michelangelo was highly inspired when he wrote this poem. His passion, his vision, his pride, his faith come through in a sweeping crescendo of feeling and beauty. 169 This madrigal is probably the first of Michelangelo’s poems on the death of Vittoria which occurred on February 23, 1547. His inspiration had still to free itself from the entanglements of rhetoric, for in these lines Michelangelo repeated what he had already said of Cecchino Bracci’s death, thirteen years previously. 170 This great, moving poem, misunderstood by several critics and quickly dismissed by J.A. Symonds as “something rather Teutonic than Italian, a ‘Danse Macabre’ intensity of loathing,” is of a realism that shatters one’s soul. Did Michelangelo, then an old man, exaggerate? It might well be. But the power of this capitolo is in the magnificent blend of crudity and truth. The collapse of the body is minutely, excruciatingly analyzed: headaches, deafness, poor vision, loose teeth, stones in the gall bladder. One turns immediately to the Letters and finds in them passages that can corroborate this crude but true analysis (cfr. CCC XXXIV). The last two lines are two epic poems. The fragment immediately following [G APPENDIX 16; T 82] is certainly linked with this poem. 171 The theme is love and old age, or better, love in old age. Michelangelo junior informs us that he found [G 270: T 117] written on “a drawing, in pencil, of a knee with part of the tibia.” 172 See note 171. 173 See note 171. 174 “Even though the point of departure is Petrarchan, there is in this sonnet a sincere, mature sense of the futility of love in an old, weary heart” (Ceriello, Rime, p. 264). 175 This unfinished sonnet sounds like a comment on Dante’s opening lines of Paradiso: La grazia di colui che tutto move Per l’universo penetra e risplende In una parte più e meno altrove.

176 This religious sonnet seems to me close in mood and meditation to the preceding madrigal [G 263; T 122].

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Notes to pages 221–9

177 It is difficult both to agree and disagree with Professor Frey who sees in this fragment Michelangelo’s attempt at a description of Dante’s Hell. The third line is not too far from the second of Inferno, I, yet the interruption of the sonnet is too abrupt to lead us to any conclusive opinion. 178 In 1550, Giorgio Vasari gave Michelangelo a copy of his monumental work, Lives of Painters, Sculptors and Architects. The seventy-five-year old artist read the book with generous enthusiasm and then sent the author, who was also one of his dearest friends, his sonnet. 179 It says with much concision and beauty: “Everything at the right time.” Michelangelo junior tells us that these two lines were written over a door in Michelangelo’s house. 180 Fragments of two sonnets. In the first, I have translated the first line according to this variant in the original, “La forza d’un bel viso al ciel mi sprona,” which seems to me more consistent with the rest of the poem. 181 See note 180. 182 I believe that this fragment is the sestet of [G 279; T 141]. The line “My art and death do not go well together” will recur in other poems, in stronger terms. 183 Art is seen as the only rampart of life when death is close. The first part of this sonnet was lost. 184 This sonnet was sent to Vasari with this note: “You too perhaps will say that I am an old fool for still wanting to write sonnets; but since many people accuse me of senility, it is my duty to write.” 185 Michelangelo was eighty-one when he wrote this sonnet, dedicated to Mons. Luigi Beccadelli, archbishop of Ragusa. The prelate answered with the following sonnet. With bishop’s cap, and step both weak and blind. And through all dangers and long ways untrod, O Buonarroti, you leave behind, Bound for a place where Rome’s great name sounds odd. So difficult our cause, so hard the road, I almost feel that I should have declined: But then I think of Him Who, for our good, Died on a cross, was buried, did not mind To take our flesh, and made it deathless too; In Him I trust, and only in His will Can I restore my courage for this strife. But, should my body fail to venture through This journey, pray my spirit may fulfill A happy flight to God and find His life.

186 Michelangelo celebrates the ‘gift of gifts,’– faith.



Notes to pages 229–37

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187 From [G 290; T 152] through [G 298; T 160] Michelangelo’s religious sonnets, or fragments of sonnets, are permeated with a sorrowful consciousness of sin. The theme of both cross and redemption is developed with no rhetorical exuberance but with ardor of belief and hope. 188 See note 187. 189 See note 187. 190 See note 187. 191 See note 187. 192 See note 187. 193 See note 187. 194 See note 187. 195 See note 187. 196 On the reverse of this sonnet we find Michelangelo’s draft of a letter to Giorgio Vasari and a sketch of the staircase of the Laurentian Library. This may shed some light on the identity of the generous friend who had sent sugar, candles, a flask of wine, and a mare to Michelangelo, then eighty-two years old. Vasari himself tells us that Michelangelo was very fond of horses. 197 This sonnet is an answer to Bishop Beccadelli’s sonnet. The prelate had been transferred from Ragusa to Dalmatia. Michelangelo had promised his pious friend to pay him a visit together with his dear Urbino. But Urbino died on December 3, 1555. To understand how fond Michelangelo was of his servant and most intimate friend one has but to read his letters to Lionardo, his nephew, and to Giorgio Vasari (CDXXII). This sonnet has gravity, dignity, tenderness, and a sense of tearless resignation to death which in the last line becomes joyous expectation. Here is the sonnet which Michelangelo had received from Bishop Luigi Beccadelli. I crossed the Alps and all the German snow With the sweet hope I would once more be home And see you, Michelagnolo, and Rome: Yet my departure was a painful blow. Now that my days to their sad sunset flow, And I, before, have but the sea’s harsh foam, And strange people, behind, and a rough dome Of mountains, understand my soul’s new woe! But a comforting voice that comes from high Sings in my deepest heart from time to time: Take this new cross as ladder to the sky! If, free from sin and other earthly crime, You leave this last low shore, you then will fly With Buonarroti to a home sublime.

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Notes to pages 237–43

198 These two religious fragments [G 301; T 164 and G 302; T 165] conclude the collection of Michelangelo’s poems. The last line can be taken as a symbol. 199 See note 198. 200 This fragment, which appears on the Michelangelo drawing of the David now at the Louvre, was probably written in 1502. Though clearly echoed, Petrarch’s line, “Rotta è l’alta colonna e ’l verde lauro,” (son. CCLXXIX) does not seem to shed light on the obscurity of this thought. The fact that David, a poet, had to resort to a sling and a stone to attain his goal may suggest that Michelangelo, a sculptor, might have felt, in a moment of dejection, the futility or limitation of one art and the need of another. But why the bow? The theme of bow and arrows, which was dear to the Petrarchists of the Renaissance, will recur in most of Michelangelo’s love poems. Whatever the interpretation, there is strength in this sudden and almost abrupt association of sling and bow, of stone and song. But the word “song” Michelangelo did not dare pronounce; his verse, he knew, was unprofessional and rough. 201 These eight fragments, or fragments of fragments, were discovered and published by Professor Frey. They are either isolated thoughts or tentative rhymes jotted down for possible development. The line in No. 6, “This is the way the sun rejects the shadow,” once more reveals the Titan. [Girardi includes these fragments only in the “apparatus” to Michelangelo’s Rime. – Editor’s note] 202 See note 201. 203 Both this line and the preceding sonnet [G4; T7] were written on the reverse of a letter of Buonarroto Simoni in Florence to Michelagnuolo di Lodovicho di Buonarroto scultore fiorentino in Bolognia, dated December 24, 1507. The same lightness of mood is evident. 204 See note 14. 205 See note 201. 206 A fragment, the obscurity of which is in the very mutilation of the sentence. 207 Six fragments of madrigals or sonnets which appear in the Varchi Lezione and were first published by Guasti. 208 See note 207. 209 See note 207. 210 See note 207. 211 See note 207. 212 See note 207. 213 See note 18. 214 An unfinished ottava or the beginning of a sonnet most likely for Colonna.



Notes to pages 243–68

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215 A brief but great outburst of religiousness. In two lines Michelangelo has captured life and death, earth and heaven, man’s failure and Gods infinite splendor. Joseph Tusiani: A Biographical Profile 1 Joseph Tusiani, Gente Mia and Other Poems (Stone Park, IL: Italian Cultural Center, 1978); reprinted in Ethnicity, ed. Paolo Giordano (New York: Bordighera Press, 2012). Tusiani, Joseph. “The Return.” http://siba3 .unile.it/ctle/tusiani/the_return.htm. 2 Felix Stefanile, “Introduction” to If Gold Should Rust in Joseph Tusiani: Poet Translator Humanist. An International Homage, ed. Paolo A. Giordano (West Lafayette, IN: Bordighera Press, 1994), 267. I know that Joseph appreciated very much Stefanile’s short commentary of him as “a veritable oneman industry.” On a couple of occasions during my visits, when Felix’s name came up, Joseph would smile, most appreciatively and with a good dose of modesty, as he referenced Stefanile’s compliment. This is exemplary of Joseph’s humility. He himself never sought fame; he did what he did for the love of his craft as writer and translator. During any conversation about how well he might have been known and in which cultural circles, he would always revert back to his books; he believed they were the true legacies of his work. Fame, for him, was secondary at best. 3 Unbeknownst to Joseph, the poem was submitted by his friend and mentor, Frances Winwar. For more on Joseph’s admiration for her, see chapter 26 of his In una casa un’altra casa trovo. Autobiografia di un poeta di due terre, eds. Raffaele Cera and Cosma Siani (Milan: Bompiani, 2016), pp. 190-8. 4 The story goes that then-candidate John F. Kennedy was campaigning in the New York area and made a stop at the College of Mount Saint Vincent, where Joseph was teaching. Not long before Kennedy’s stopover Robert L. Clements had reviewed Joseph’s translation of the poems by Michelangelo. Having been introduced to Tusiani, Kennedy recalled the review – “You’re the Michelangelo man,” Joseph once recounted to me – and went on to promise an invitation to the White House after he won the election. That visit took place in 1963. Robert L. Clements, review of The Complete Poems of Michelangelo, translated with notes and introduction by Joseph Tusiani New York: Noonday Press, 1960), in The New York Times Book Review (5 June 1960): 22. 5 Dirk Sacré, “Joseph Tusiani’s Latin Poetry: Aspects of Its Originality.” in Joseph Tusiani: Poet Tarnslator Humanist. An International Homage, ed. Paolo A. Giordano (West Lafayette, IN: Bordighera Press, 1994), 167. 6 In February 2014 Joseph suffered a mild stroke. During the few years that preceded his stroke, and by his own admission, he had experienced a dry

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Notes to pages 268–76 spell. Remarkable, to be sure, is the aesthetic plentitude that has resulted from the malady that befell him. From February 2014 until his death, Joseph composed close to two thousand poems in four languages: Italian, English, Latin, and his Gargano dialect. His most recent publications are, in English, A Clarion Call. New Poems, ed. Paolo Giordano and Anthony Julian Tamburri (New York: Bordighera Press, 2016); and in Italian Poesie Per un Anno (2014–2019), ed. Antonio Motta and Cosma Tusiani (San Marco in Lamis, Puglia: Centro Documentazione Leonardo Sciascia, 2019). “The Michelangelo Man”: An Interview with Joseph Tusiani

1 Tusiani is referring to the novel The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni (1825), a classic of the Italian canon that is mandatory reading for all Italian schoolchildren. The character of Don Abbondio, a timid or rather cowardly country priest, is first described by Manzoni as he is puzzling over a book he is reading, in which the Greek philosopher Carneades was mentioned. The expression has since become proverbial. 2 Joseph Tusiani, La gloria del momento. Poesie in lingua Spagnola (San Marco in Lamis: Centro di documentazione Leonardo Sciascia Archivio del ’900, 2019). 3 Here are more detailed bibliographical references for the books mentioned: Francesco Durante, Italoamericana. Vol. 1: Storia e letteratura degli italiani negli Stati Uniti 1776–1880 (Milan: Mondadori, 2001); Francesco Durante, Italoamericana. Vol. 2: Storia e letteratura degli italiani negli Stati Uniti 1880–1943 (Milan: Mondadori, 2005); Francesco Durante, Italoamericana: The Literature of the Great Migration, 1880–1943, ed. Robert Viscusi, Anthony Julian Tamburri, and James Periconi (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014); Joseph Tusiani, La parola difficile. Autobiografia di un italo-americano (Fasano: Schena Editore, 1988); Joseph Tusiani, La parola nuova. Autobiografia di un italo-americano (Fasano: Schena Editore, 1991); Joseph Tusiani, La parola antica. Autobiografia di un italo-americano (Fasano: Schena Editore, 1992); Joseph Tusiani, In una casa un’altra casa trovo. Autobiografia di un poeta di due terre, a cura di Raffaele Cera e Cosma Siani (Milan: Bompiani, 2016). 4 See Tamburri’s biographical profile in this volume. 5 Frances Winwar, born Francesca Vinciguerra (1900–85), was a journalist, translator, and very successful fiction writer. She is best known for a ­series of romanticized biographies of nineteenth-century English writers and other historical figures. Her books were immensely popular in the 1940s and 1950s. In the 1930s and 1940s she was a very vocal anti-Fascist.

First Lines in Italian

Sol io ardendo all’ombra mi rimango (G 2) Grato e felice, a’ tuo feroci mali (G 3) Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta (G 4) I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento (G 5) Signor, se vero è alcun proverbio antico (G 6) Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena (G 7) Come può esser ch’io non sia più mio? (G 8) Colui che ’l tutto fe’, fece ogni parte (G 9) Qua si fa elmi di calici e spade (G 10) Quanto sare’ men doglia il morir presto (G 11) Com’arò dunche ardire (G 12) La fama tiene gli epitaffi a giacere (G 13) El Dì e la Notte parlano, e dicono (G 14) Di te me veggo e di lontan mi chiamo (G 15) D’un oggetto leggiadro e pellegrino (G 16) Crudele, acerbo e dispietato core (G 17) Mille rimedi invan l’anima tenta (G 18) Natura ogni valore (G 19) Tu ha’ ’l viso più dolce che la sapa (G 20) Chiunche nasce a morte arriva (G 21) Che fie di me? che vo’ tu far di nuovo (G 22) I’ fu’, già son molt’anni, mille volte (G 23) I’ fe’ degli occhi porta al mie veneno (G 24) Quand’il servo il signor d’aspra catena (G 25) Quand’avvien c’alcun legno non difenda (G 26) Fuggite, amanti, Amor, fuggite ’l foco (G 27) Perché pur d’ora in ora mi lusinga (G 28) Ogn’ira, ogni miseria e ogni forza (G 29) Dagli occhi del mie ben si parte e vola (G 30)

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First Lines in Italian

Vivo al peccato, a me morendo vivo (G 32) La vita del mie amor non è ’l cor mio (G 34) El ciglio col color non fere el volto (G 35) Oltre qui fu, dove ’l mie amor mi tolse (G 36) In me la morte, in te la vita mia (G 37) Quanta dolcezza al cor per gli occhi porta (G 38) Del fiero colpo e del pungente strale (G 39) Quand’Amor lieto al ciel levarmi è volto (G 40) Spirto ben nato, in cu’ si specchia e vede (G 41) Dimmi di grazia, Amor, se gli occhi mei (G 42) La ragion meco si lamenta e dole (G 43) Mentre c’alla beltà ch’i’ vidi in prima (G 44) Ben doverrieno al sospirar mie tanto (G 45) Se ’l mie rozzo martello i duri sassi (G 46) Quand’el ministro de’ sospir mie tanti (G 47) Come fiamma più cresce più contesa (G 48) Amor, la tuo beltà non è mortale (G 49) Che fie doppo molt’anni di costei (G 50) Oilmè, oilmè, ch’i’ son tradito (G 51) S’alcun se stesso al mondo ancider lice (G 52) Chi di notte cavalca, el dì conviene (G 53) Io crederrei, se tu fussi di sasso, (G 54) I’ t’ho comprato, ancor che molto caro, (G 55) Vivo della mie morte e, se ben guardo, (G 56) S’i’ vivo più di chi più m’arde e cuoce, (G 57) Se l’immortal desio, c’alza e corregge (G 58) S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna, (G 59) Tu sa’ ch’i’ so, signor mie, che tu sai (G 60) S’i’ avessi creduto al primo sguardo (G 61) Sol pur col foco il fabbro il ferro stende (G 62) Sì amico al freddo sasso è ’l foco interno (G 63) Se ’l foco il sasso rompe e ’l ferro squaglia (G 64) In quel medesmo tempo ch’io v’adoro (G 65) Forse perché d’altrui pietà mi vegna (G 66) Nuovo piacere e di maggiore stima (G 67) Un gigante v’è ancor, d’altezza tanta (G 68) Ben provvide natura, né conviene (G 69) Crudele stella, anzi crudele arbitrio (G 70) I’ l’ho, vostra mercè, per ricevuto (G 71) Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede (G 72) Mentre del foco son scacciata e priva (G 73) I’ piango, i’ ardo, i’ mi consumo, e ’l core (G 74)



First Lines in Italian

Egli è pur troppo a rimirarsi intorno (G 75) Non so se s’è la desïata luce (G 76) Se ’l foco fusse alla bellezza equale (G 77) Dal dolce pianto al doloroso riso (G 78) Felice spirto, che con zelo ardente (G 79) I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’io (G 80) Ogni cosa ch’i’ veggio mi consiglia (G 81) Non posso altra figura immaginarmi (G 82) Veggio nel tuo bel viso, signor mio, (G 83) Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro (G 84) Com’io ebbi la vostra, signor mio, (G 85) Ancor che ’l cor già mi premesse tanto (G 86) Vorrei voler, Signor, quel ch’io non voglio (G 87) Sento d’un foco un freddo aspetto acceso (G 88) Veggio co’ be’ vostr’occhi un dolce lume (G 89) I’ mi son caro assai più ch’i’ non soglio (G 90) Perc’all’estremo ardore (G 91) Quantunche ’l tempo ne costringa e sproni (G 92) Spargendo il senso il troppo ardor cocente (G 93) D’altrui pietoso e sol di sé spietato (G 94) Rendete agli occhi mei, o fonte o fiume, (G 95) Sì come secco legno in foco ardente (G 96) Al cor di zolfo, a la carne di stoppa, (G 97) A che più debb’i’ omai l’intensa voglia (G 98) Ben mi dove’ con sì felice sorte, (G 99) Ben fu, temprando il ciel tuo vivo raggio, (G 100) Perché Febo non torce e non distende (G 101) O notte, o dolce tempo, benché nero, (G 102) Ogni van chiuso, ogni coperto loco, (G 103) Colui che fece, e non di cosa alcuna, (G 104) Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale (G 105) Per ritornar là donde venne fora (G 106) Gli occhi mie vaghi delle cose belle (G 107) Indarno spera, come ’l vulgo dice, (G 108) Non sempre a tutti è sì pregiato e caro (G 109) Io dico a voi c’al mondo avete dato (G 110) S’egli è, donna, che puoi (G 111) Il mio refugio e ’l mio ultimo scampo (G 112) Esser non può già ma’ che gli occhi santi (G 113) Ben vinci ogni durezza (G 114) Lezi, vezzi, carezze, or, feste e perle, (G 115) Non mi posso tener né voglio, Amore, (G 116)

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First Lines in Italian

S’egli è che ’l buon desio (G 117) Ancor che ’l cor già molte volte sia (G 118) Dal primo pianto all’ultimo sospiro (G 119) Ben tempo saria omai (G 120) Come non puoi non esser cosa bella (G 121) Se ’l foco al tutto nuoce (G 122) Quante più par che ’l mie mal maggior senta (G 123) Questa mie donna è sì pronta e ardita (G 124) Tanto di sé promette (G 125) Se l’alma è ver, dal suo corpo disciolta, (G 126) Non pur la morte, ma ’l timor di quella (G 127) Se ’l timor della morte (G 128) Da maggior luce e da più chiara stella (G 129) Non è senza periglio (G 130) Sotto duo belle ciglia (G 131) Mentre che ’l mie passato m’è presente (G 132) Condotto da molt’anni all’ultim’ore (G 133) Beati voi che su nel ciel godete (G 134) Mentre c’al tempo la mie vita fugge (G 135) L’alma, che sparge e versa (G 136) Se per gioir pur brami affanni e pianti (G 137) Porgo umilmente all’aspro giogo il collo (G 138) In più leggiadra e men pietosa spoglia (G 139) Se l’alma al fin ritorna (G 140) Perc’all’alta mie speme è breve e corta (G 141) Credo, perc’ancor forse (G 142) Quant’ognor fugge il giorno che mi resta (G 143) Passo inanzi a me stesso (G 144) Se costei gode e tu solo, Amor, vivi (G 145) Gli sguardi che tu strazi (G 146) Deh dimmi, Amor, se l’alma di costei (G 147) Io dico che fra voi, potenti dei (G 147 bis) Con più certa salute (G 148) Non posso non mancar d’ingegno e d’arte (G 149) Non men gran grazia, donna, che gran doglia (G 150) Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto (G 151) Sì come per levar, donna, si pone (G 152) Non pur d’argento o d’oro (G 153) Tanto sopra me stesso (G 154) Le grazie tua e la fortuna mia (G 155) A l’alta tuo lucente dïadema (G 156)



First Lines in Italian

Pietosa e dolce aita (G 157) Amor, la morte a forza (G 158) Per esser manco, alta signora, indegno (G 159) S’alcun legato è pur dal piacer molto (G 160) Per qual mordace lima (G 161) Ora in sul destro, ora in sul manco piede (G 162) Quante più fuggo e odio ognor me stesso (G 163) Per fido esemplo alla mia vocazione (G 164) Se ’l commodo degli occhi alcun costringe (G 165) Ben posson gli occhi mie presso e lontano (G 166) La morte, Amor, del mie medesmo loco, (G 167) Perché ’l mezzo di me che dal ciel viene (G 168) Nel mie ’rdente desio (G 169) Spargendo gran bellezza ardente foco (G 170) Nella memoria delle cose belle (G 171) Costei pur si delibra (G 172) Se dal cor lieto divien bello il volto (G 173) Per quel che di vo’, donna, di fuor veggio, (G 174) No’ salda, Amor, de’ tuo dorati strali (G 175) Mestier non era all’alma tuo beltate (G 176) In noi vive e qui giace la divina (G 177) La nuova alta beltà che ’n ciel terrei (G 178) Se qui son chiusi i begli occhi e sepolti (G 179) Deh serbi, s’è di me pietate alcuna (G 180) Perché ne’ volti offesi non entrasti (G 181) Non volse Morte non ancider senza (G 182) La beltà che qui giace al mondo vinse (G 183) Qui son de’ Bracci, deboli a l’impresa (G 184) Qui son sepulto, e poco innanzi nato (G 185) Non può per morte già chi qui mi serra (G 186) L’alma di dentro di fuor non vedea, (G 187) Se dalla morte è vinta la natura (G 188) Qui son chiusi i begli occhi, che aperti (G 189) Qui son morto creduto; e per conforto (G 190) Se l’alma vive del suo corpo fora (G 191) S’è ver, com’è, che dopo il corpo viva, (G 192) A pena prima aperti gli vidd’io (G 193) Qui vuol mie sorte c’anzi tempo i’ dorma (G 194) Se qui cent’anni t’han tolto due ore (G 195) Gran ventura qui morto esser mi veggio (G 196) La carne terra, e qui l’ossa mie, prive (G 197)

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First Lines in Italian

Se fussin, perch’i’ viva un’altra volta, (G 198) Chi qui morto mi piange indarno spera (G 199) S’i’ fu’ già vivo, tu sol, pietra, il sai, (G 200) I’ temo più, fuor degli anni e dell’ore (G 201) I’ fu de’ Bracci, e se ritratto e privo (G 202) De’ Bracci nacqui, e dopo ’l primo pianto, (G 203) Più che vivo non ero, morto sono (G 204) Se morte ha di virtù qui ’l primo fiore (G 205) Dal ciel fu la beltà mie diva e ’ntera (G 206) Per sempre a morte, e prima a voi fu’ dato (G 207) Qui chiuso è ’l sol di c’ancor piangi e ardi (G 208) Qui sol per tempo convien posi e dorma (G 209) Se gli occhi aperti mie fur vita e pace (G 210) Se, vivo al mondo, d’alcun vita fui (G 211) Perc’all’altru’ ferir non ave’ pari (G 212) Sepulto è qui quel Braccio, che Dio volse (213) Era la vita vostra il suo splendore (G 214) A la terra la terra e l’alma al cielo (G 215) Qui serro il Braccio e suo beltà divina (G 216) S’avvien come fenice mai rinnuovi (G 217) Col sol de’ Bracci il sol della natura (G 218) I’ fui de’ Bracci, e qui mie vita è morte (G 219) Deposto ha qui Cecchin sì nobil salma (G 220) Qui giace il Braccio, e men non si desìa (G 221) Qui stese il Braccio e colse acerbo il frutto (G 222) I’ fu’ Cecchin mortale e or son divo (G 223) Chiusi ha qui gli occhi e ’l corpo, e l’alma sciolta (G 224) I’ fu’ de’ Bracci, e qui dell’alma privo (G 225) Che l’alma viva, i’ che qui morto sono (G 226) Ripreso ha ’l divin Braccio il suo bel velo (G 227) Se ’l mondo il corpo, e l’alma il ciel ne presta (G 228) Occhi mie, siate certi (G 229) Perché tuo gran bellezze al mondo sièno (G 230) Non è più tempo, Amor, che ’l cor m’infiammi, (G 231) Non altrimenti contro a sé cammina (G 232) Se da’ prim’anni aperto un lento e poco (G 233) Tanto non è, quante da te non viene, (G 234) Un uomo in una donna, anzi uno dio (G 235) Se ben concetto ha la divina parte (G 236) Molto diletta al gusto intero e sano (G 237) Non è non degna l’alma che n’attende (G 238) Com’esser, donna, può quel c’alcun vede (G 239)



First Lines in Italian

Sol d’una pietra viva (G 240) Negli anni molti e nelle molte pruove (G 241) S’egli è che ’n dura pietra alcun somigli (G 242) Ognor che l’idol mio si rappresenta (G 243) Se ’l duol fa pur, com’alcun dice, bello, (G 244) Se ’l volto di ch’i’ parlo, di costei, (G 245) Te sola del mie mal contenta veggio (G 246) Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso, (G 247) Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi (G 248) Per molti, donna, anzi per mille amanti (G 249) Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire (G 250) Nel dolce d’una immensa cortesia (G 251) Perch’è troppo molesta (G 252) S’i’ fussi stato ne’ prim’anni accorto (G 253) Donn’, a me vecchio e grave, (G 254) Mentre i begli occhi giri (G 255) S’alcuna parte in donna è che sie bella (G 256) Perché sì tardi e perché non più spesso (G 257) Quantunche sie che la beltà divina (G 258) Ben può talor col mie ’rdente desio (G 259) Non è sempre di colpa aspra e mortale (G 260) Se ’l troppo indugio ha più grazia e ventura (G 261) Amor, se tu se’ dio, (G 262) La nuova beltà d’una (G 263) Come portato ho già più tempo in seno (G 264) Per non s’avere a ripigliar da tanti (G 265) Qual meraviglia è, se prossim’al foco (G 266) I’ sto rinchiuso come la midolla (G 267) Perché l’età ne ’nvola (G 268) Or d’un fier ghiaccio, or d’un ardente foco, (G 269) Tu mi da’ di quel c’ognor t’avanza (G 270) Di te con teco, Amor, molt’anni sono (G 271) Tornami al tempo, allor che lenta e sciolta (G 272) Se sempre è solo e un quel che sol muove (G 273) Deh fammiti vedere in ogni loco! (G 274) Dagli alti monti e d’una gran ruina (G 275) Passa per gli occhi al core in un momento (G 276) Se con lo stile o coi colori avete (G 277) Chi non vuol delle foglie (G 278) La forza d’un bel viso a che mi sprona? (G 279) L’alma inquieta e confusa in sé non truova (G 280) Arder sole’ nel freddo ghiaccio il foco (G 281)

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Con tanta servitù, con tanto tedio (G 282) Non può, Signor mie car, la fresca e verde (G 283) S’a tuo nome ho concetto alcuno immago (G 284) Giunto è già ’l corso della vita mia (G 285) Gl’infiniti pensier mie d’error pieni (G 286) Di giorno in giorno insin da’ mie prim’anni (G 287) Le favole del mondo m’hanno tolto (G 288) Non è più bassa o vil cosa terrena (G 289) Scarco d’un’importuna e greve salma (G 290) Penso e ben so c’alcuna colpa preme (G 291) Ben sarien dolce le preghiere mie (G 292) Carico d’anni e di peccati pieno (G 293) Mentre m’attrista e duol, parte m’è caro (G 294) Di morte certo, ma non già dell’ora, (G 295) S’avvien che spesso il gran desir prometta (G 296) Se lungo spazio del trist’uso e folle (G 297) Non fur men lieti che turbati e tristi (G 298) Al zucchero, a la mula, a le candele, (G 299) Per croce e grazia e per diverse pene (G 300) Di più cose s’attristan gli occhi mei (G 301) Non più per altro da me stesso togli (G 302) Davitte colla frombola e io coll’arco. (APP. G 3-4) Al dolce mormorar d’un fiumicello (APP. G 5) Vidi donna bella (APP. G 6) Febbre, fianchi, dolor, morbi, occhi e denti. (APP. G 16) La m’arde e lega e temmi e parm’un zucchero. (APP. G 17) Dentr’a me giugne al cor, gia’ fatto tale (APP. G 21) Non altrimenti Dedal si riscosse (APP. G 24) Che mal si può amar ben chi non si vede. (APP. G 26) Fatto arsicciato e cotto dal sole e da maggior caldi. (APP. G 29) Signore, io fallo e veggio el mio fallire, (APP. G 31) Nulla già valsi (APP. G 34) Non ha l’abito intero (APP. G 35) In tal misero stato, il vostro viso (APP. G 36) Se ben talor tuo gran pietà m’assale (APP. G 37) Né so se d’altro stral già mai s’avviene (APP. G 38) Che posso o debbo o vuoi ch’io pruovi ancora (APP. G 39) Chome cosa non fu giama si’ bella (APP. G 19) O che memoria d’alcun colpo sia (APP. G 76) D’un foco son I be’ uostr’ochi accesi (APP. G 88) Non posso or non ueder dentr’ a chi muore (Frey 30)



First Lines in Italian

First Lines in Italian (in Alphabetical Order) A che più debb’i’ omai l’intensa voglia (G 98) A l’alta tuo lucente dïadema (G 156) A la terra la terra e l’alma al cielo (G 215) A pena prima aperti gli vidd’io (G 193) Al cor di zolfo, a la carne di stoppa, (G 97) Al dolce mormorar d’un fiumicello (APP. G 5) Al zucchero, a la mula, a le candele, (G 299) Amor, la morte a forza (G 158) Amor, la tuo beltà non è mortale (G 49) Amor, se tu se’ dio, (G 262) Ancor che ’l cor già mi premesse tanto (G 86) Ancor che ’l cor già molte volte sia (G 118) Arder sole’ nel freddo ghiaccio il foco (G 281) Beati voi che su nel ciel godete (G 134) Ben doverrieno al sospirar mie tanto (G 45) Ben fu, temprando il ciel tuo vivo raggio, (G 100) Ben mi dove’ con sì felice sorte, (G 99) Ben posson gli occhi mie presso e lontano (G 166) Ben provvide natura, né conviene (G 69) Ben può talor col mie ’rdente desio (G 259) Ben sarien dolce le preghiere mie (G 292) Ben tempo saria omai (G 120) Ben vinci ogni durezza (G 114) Carico d’anni e di peccati pieno (G 293) Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso, (G 247) Che fie di me? che vo’ tu far di nuovo (G 22) Che fie doppo molt’anni di costei (G 50) Che l’alma viva, i’ che qui morto sono (G 226) Che mal si può amar ben chi non si vede. (APP. G 26) Che posso o debbo o vuoi ch’io pruovi ancora (APP. G 39) Chi di notte cavalca, el dì conviene (G 53) Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena (G 7) Chi non vuol delle foglie (G 278) Chi qui morto mi piange indarno spera (G 199) Chiunche nasce a morte arriva (G 21) Chiusi ha qui gli occhi e ’l corpo, e l’alma sciolta (G 224) Chome cosa non fu giama si’ bella (APP. G 19) Col sol de’ Bracci il sol della natura (G 218) Colui che ’l tutto fe’, fece ogni parte (G 9)

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Colui che fece, e non di cosa alcuna, (G 104) Com’arò dunche ardire (G 12) Com’esser, donna, può quel c’alcun vede (G 239) Com’io ebbi la vostra, signor mio, (G 85) Come fiamma più cresce più contesa (G 48) Come non puoi non esser cosa bella (G 121) Come portato ho già più tempo in seno (G 264) Come può esser ch’io non sia più mio? (G 8) Con più certa salute (G 148) Con tanta servitù, con tanto tedio (G 282) Condotto da molt’anni all’ultim’ore (G 133) Costei pur si delibra (G 172) Credo, perc’ancor forse (G 142) Crudele stella, anzi crudele arbitrio (G 70) Crudele, acerbo e dispietato core (G 17) D’altrui pietoso e sol di sé spietato (G 94) D’un foco son I be’ uostr’ochi accesi (APP. G 88) D’un oggetto leggiadro e pellegrino (G 16) Da maggior luce e da più chiara stella (G 129) Dagli alti monti e d’una gran ruina (G 275) Dagli occhi del mie ben si parte e vola (G 30) Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi (G 248) Dal ciel fu la beltà mie diva e ’ntera (G 206) Dal dolce pianto al doloroso riso (G 78) Dal primo pianto all’ultimo sospiro (G 119) Davitte colla frombola e io coll’arco. (APP. G 3-4) De’ Bracci nacqui, e dopo ’l primo pianto, (G 203) Deh dimmi, Amor, se l’alma di costei (G 147) Deh fammiti vedere in ogni loco! (G 274) Deh serbi, s’è di me pietate alcuna (G 180) Del fiero colpo e del pungente strale (G 39) Dentr’a me giugne al cor, gia’ fatto tale (APP. G 21) Deposto ha qui Cecchin sì nobil salma (G 220) Di giorno in giorno insin da’ mie prim’anni (G 287) Di morte certo, ma non già dell’ora, (G 295) Di più cose s’attristan gli occhi mei (G 301) Di te con teco, Amor, molt’anni sono (G 271) Di te me veggo e di lontan mi chiamo (G 15) Dimmi di grazia, Amor, se gli occhi mei (G 42) Donn’, a me vecchio e grave, (G 254) Egli è pur troppo a rimirarsi intorno (G 75) El ciglio col color non fere el volto (G 35)



First Lines in Italian

El Dì e la Notte parlano, e dicono (G 14) Era la vita vostra il suo splendore (G 214) Esser non può già ma’ che gli occhi santi (G 113) Fatto arsicciato e cotto dal sole e da maggior caldi. (APP. G 29) Febbre, fianchi, dolor, morbi, occhi e denti. (APP. G 16) Felice spirto, che con zelo ardente (G 79) Forse perché d’altrui pietà mi vegna (G 66) Fuggite, amanti, Amor, fuggite ’l foco (G 27) Giunto è già ’l corso della vita mia (G 285) Gl’infiniti pensier mie d’error pieni (G 286) Gli occhi mie vaghi delle cose belle (G 107) Gli sguardi che tu strazi (G 146) Gran ventura qui morto esser mi veggio (G 196) Grato e felice, a’ tuo feroci mali (G 3) I’ fe’ degli occhi porta al mie veneno (G 24) I’ fu de’ Bracci, e se ritratto e privo (G 202) I’ fu’ Cecchin mortale e or son divo (G 223) I’ fu’ de’ Bracci, e qui dell’alma privo (G 225) I’ fu’, già son molt’anni, mille volte (G 23) I’ fui de’ Bracci, e qui mie vita è morte (G 219) I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento (G 5) I’ l’ho, vostra mercè, per ricevuto (G 71) I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’io (G 80) I’ mi son caro assai più ch’i’ non soglio (G 90) I’ piango, i’ ardo, i’ mi consumo, e ’l core (G 74) I’ sto rinchiuso come la midolla (G 267) I’ t’ho comprato, ancor che molto caro, (G 55) I’ temo più, fuor degli anni e dell’ore (G 201) Il mio refugio e ’l mio ultimo scampo (G 112) In me la morte, in te la vita mia (G 37) In noi vive e qui giace la divina (G 177) In più leggiadra e men pietosa spoglia (G 139) In quel medesmo tempo ch’io v’adoro (G 65) In tal misero stato, il vostro viso (APP. G 36) Indarno spera, come ’l vulgo dice, (G 108) Io crederrei, se tu fussi di sasso, (G 54) Io dico a voi c’al mondo avete dato (G 110) Io dico che fra voi, potenti dei (G 147 bis) L’alma di dentro di fuor non vedea, (G 187) L’alma inquieta e confusa in sé non truova (G 280) L’alma, che sparge e versa (G 136) La beltà che qui giace al mondo vinse (G 183)

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La carne terra, e qui l’ossa mie, prive (G 197) La fama tiene gli epitaffi a giacere (G 13) La forza d’un bel viso a che mi sprona? (G 279) La m’arde e lega e temmi e parm’un zucchero. (APP. G 17) La morte, Amor, del mie medesmo loco, (G 167) La nuova alta beltà che ’n ciel terrei (G 178) La nuova beltà d’una (G 263) La ragion meco si lamenta e dole (G 43) La vita del mie amor non è ’l cor mio (G 34) Le favole del mondo m’hanno tolto (G 288) Le grazie tua e la fortuna mia (G 155) Lezi, vezzi, carezze, or, feste e perle, (G 115) Mentre c’al tempo la mie vita fugge (G 135) Mentre c’alla beltà ch’i’ vidi in prima (G 44) Mentre che ’l mie passato m’è presente (G 132) Mentre del foco son scacciata e priva (G 73) Mentre i begli occhi giri (G 255) Mentre m’attrista e duol, parte m’è caro (G 294) Mestier non era all’alma tuo beltate (G 176) Mille rimedi invan l’anima tenta (G 18) Molto diletta al gusto intero e sano (G 237) Natura ogni valore (G 19) Né so se d’altro stral già mai s’avviene (APP. G 38) Negli anni molti e nelle molte pruove (G 241) Nel dolce d’una immensa cortesia (G 251) Nel mie ’rdente desio (G 169) Nella memoria delle cose belle (G 171) No’ salda, Amor, de’ tuo dorati strali (G 175) Non altrimenti contro a sé cammina (G 232) Non altrimenti Dedal si riscosse (APP. G 24) Non è non degna l’alma che n’attende (G 238) Non è più bassa o vil cosa terrena (G 289) Non è più tempo, Amor, che ’l cor m’infiammi, (G 231) Non è sempre di colpa aspra e mortale (G 260) Non è senza periglio (G 130) Non fur men lieti che turbati e tristi (G 298) Non ha l’abito intero (APP. G 35) Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto (G 151) Non men gran grazia, donna, che gran doglia (G 150) Non mi posso tener né voglio, Amore, (G 116) Non più per altro da me stesso togli (G 302) Non posso altra figura immaginarmi (G 82)



First Lines in Italian

Non posso non mancar d’ingegno e d’arte (G 149) Non posso or non ueder dentr’ a chi muore (Frey 30) Non può per morte già chi qui mi serra (G 186) Non può, Signor mie car, la fresca e verde (G 283) Non pur d’argento o d’oro (G 153) Non pur la morte, ma ’l timor di quella (G 127) Non sempre a tutti è sì pregiato e caro (G 109) Non so se s’è la desïata luce (G 76) Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale (G 105) Non volse Morte non ancider senza (G 182) Nulla già valsi (APP. G 34) Nuovo piacere e di maggiore stima (G 67) O che memoria d’alcun colpo sia (APP. G 76) O notte, o dolce tempo, benché nero, (G 102) Occhi mie, siate certi (G 229) Ogn’ira, ogni miseria e ogni forza (G 29) Ogni cosa ch’i’ veggio mi consiglia (G 81) Ogni van chiuso, ogni coperto loco, (G 103) Ognor che l’idol mio si rappresenta (G 243) Oilmè, oilmè, ch’i’ son tradito (G 51) Oltre qui fu, dove ’l mie amor mi tolse (G 36) Or d’un fier ghiaccio, or d’un ardente foco, (G 269) Ora in sul destro, ora in sul manco piede (G 162) Passa per gli occhi al core in un momento (G 276) Passo inanzi a me stesso (G 144) Penso e ben so c’alcuna colpa preme (G 291) Per croce e grazia e per diverse pene (G 300) Per esser manco, alta signora, indegno (G 159) Per fido esemplo alla mia vocazione (G 164) Per molti, donna, anzi per mille amanti (G 249) Per non s’avere a ripigliar da tanti (G 265) Per qual mordace lima (G 161) Per quel che di vo’, donna, di fuor veggio, (G 174) Per ritornar là donde venne fora (G 106) Per sempre a morte, e prima a voi fu’ dato (G 207) Perc’all’alta mie speme è breve e corta (G 141) Perc’all’altru’ ferir non ave’ pari (G 212) Perc’all’estremo ardore (G 91) Perch’è troppo molesta (G 252) Perché ’l mezzo di me che dal ciel viene (G 168) Perché Febo non torce e non distende (G 101) Perché l’età ne ’nvola (G 268)

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Perché ne’ volti offesi non entrasti (G 181) Perché pur d’ora in ora mi lusinga (G 28) Perché sì tardi e perché non più spesso (G 257) Perché tuo gran bellezze al mondo sièno (G 230) Pietosa e dolce aita (G 157) Più che vivo non ero, morto sono (G 204) Porgo umilmente all’aspro giogo il collo (G 138) Qua si fa elmi di calici e spade (G 10) Qual meraviglia è, se prossim’al foco (G 266) Quand’Amor lieto al ciel levarmi è volto (G 40) Quand’avvien c’alcun legno non difenda (G 26) Quand’el ministro de’ sospir mie tanti (G 47) Quand’il servo il signor d’aspra catena (G 25) Quant’ognor fugge il giorno che mi resta (G 143) Quanta dolcezza al cor per gli occhi porta (G 38) Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire (G 250) Quante più fuggo e odio ognor me stesso (G 163) Quante più par che ’l mie mal maggior senta (G 123) Quanto sare’ men doglia il morir presto (G 11) Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta (G 4) Quantunche ’l tempo ne costringa e sproni (G 92) Quantunche sie che la beltà divina (G 258) Questa mie donna è sì pronta e ardita (G 124) Qui chiuso è ’l sol di c’ancor piangi e ardi (G 208) Qui giace il Braccio, e men non si desìa (G 221) Qui serro il Braccio e suo beltà divina (G 216) Qui sol per tempo convien posi e dorma (G 209) Qui son chiusi i begli occhi, che aperti (G 189) Qui son de’ Bracci, deboli a l’impresa (G 184) Qui son morto creduto; e per conforto (G 190) Qui son sepulto, e poco innanzi nato (G 185) Qui stese il Braccio e colse acerbo il frutto (G 222) Qui vuol mie sorte c’anzi tempo i’ dorma (G 194) Rendete agli occhi mei, o fonte o fiume, (G 95) Ripreso ha ’l divin Braccio il suo bel velo (G 227) S’a tuo nome ho concetto alcuno immago (G 284) S’alcun legato è pur dal piacer molto (G 160) S’alcun se stesso al mondo ancider lice (G 52) S’alcuna parte in donna è che sie bella (G 256) S’avvien che spesso il gran desir prometta (G 296) S’avvien come fenice mai rinnuovi (G 217) S’è ver, com’è, che dopo il corpo viva, (G 192)



First Lines in Italian

S’egli è che ’l buon desio (G 117) S’egli è che ’n dura pietra alcun somigli (G 242) S’egli è, donna, che puoi (G 111) S’i’ avessi creduto al primo sguardo (G 61) S’i’ fu’ già vivo, tu sol, pietra, il sai, (G 200) S’i’ fussi stato ne’ prim’anni accorto (G 253) S’i’ vivo più di chi più m’arde e cuoce, (G 57) S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna, (G 59) Scarco d’un’importuna e greve salma (G 290) Se ’l commodo degli occhi alcun costringe (G 165) Se ’l duol fa pur, com’alcun dice, bello, (G 244) Se ’l foco al tutto nuoce (G 122) Se ’l foco fusse alla bellezza equale (G 77) Se ’l foco il sasso rompe e ’l ferro squaglia (G 64) Se ’l mie rozzo martello i duri sassi (G 46) Se ’l mondo il corpo, e l’alma il ciel ne presta (G 228) Se ’l timor della morte (G 128) Se ’l troppo indugio ha più grazia e ventura (G 261) Se ’l volto di ch’i’ parlo, di costei, (G 245) Se ben concetto ha la divina parte (G 236) Se ben talor tuo gran pietà m’assale (APP. G 37) Se con lo stile o coi colori avete (G 277) Se costei gode e tu solo, Amor, vivi (G 145) Se da’ prim’anni aperto un lento e poco (G 233) Se dal cor lieto divien bello il volto (G 173) Se dalla morte è vinta la natura (G 188) Se fussin, perch’i’ viva un’altra volta, (G 198) Se gli occhi aperti mie fur vita e pace (G 210) Se l’alma al fin ritorna (G 140) Se l’alma è ver, dal suo corpo disciolta, (G 126) Se l’alma vive del suo corpo fora (G 191) Se l’immortal desio, c’alza e corregge (G 58) Se lungo spazio del trist’uso e folle (G 297) Se morte ha di virtù qui ’l primo fiore (G 205) Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede (G 72) Se per gioir pur brami affanni e pianti (G 137) Se qui cent’anni t’han tolto due ore (G 195) Se qui son chiusi i begli occhi e sepolti (G 179) Se sempre è solo e un quel che sol muove (G 273) Se, vivo al mondo, d’alcun vita fui (G 211) Sento d’un foco un freddo aspetto acceso (G 88) Sepulto è qui quel Braccio, che Dio volse (213)

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Sì amico al freddo sasso è ’l foco interno (G 63) Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro (G 84) Sì come per levar, donna, si pone (G 152) Sì come secco legno in foco ardente (G 96) Signor, se vero è alcun proverbio antico (G 6) Signore, io fallo e veggio el mio fallire, (APP. G 31) Sol d’una pietra viva (G 240) Sol io ardendo all’ombra mi rimango (G 2) Sol pur col foco il fabbro il ferro stende (G 62) Sotto duo belle ciglia (G 131) Spargendo gran bellezza ardente foco (G 170) Spargendo il senso il troppo ardor cocente (G 93) Spirto ben nato, in cu’ si specchia e vede (G 41) Tanto di sé promette (G 125) Tanto non è, quante da te non viene, (G 234) Tanto sopra me stesso (G 154) Te sola del mie mal contenta veggio (G 246) Tornami al tempo, allor che lenta e sciolta (G 272) Tu ha’ ’l viso più dolce che la sapa (G 20) Tu mi da’ di quel c’ognor t’avanza (G 270) Tu sa’ ch’i’ so, signor mie, che tu sai (G 60) Un gigante v’è ancor, d’altezza tanta (G 68) Un uomo in una donna, anzi uno dio (G 235) Veggio co’ be’ vostr’occhi un dolce lume (G 89) Veggio nel tuo bel viso, signor mio, (G 83) Vidi donna bella (APP. G 6) Vivo al peccato, a me morendo vivo (G 32) Vivo della mie morte e, se ben guardo, (G 56) Vorrei voler, Signor, quel ch’io non voglio (G 87)

First Lines in English

My heart still burning, in the shade I alone (G 2) Having eschewed your lordship crude and sour (G 3) How glad that garland seems to be, and how (G 4) I’ve developed a goitre, in this chagrin (G 5) My Lord, of all our ancient proverbs, one (G 6) Who is the one that draws me to you ever (G 7) How can it be I am no longer I? (G 8) He who made all, created first each part (G 9) Here, to make swords and helmets, war devours (G 10) O sweeter much a sudden death would be (G 11) How shall I dare, my love, (G 12) Fame keeps all epitaphs motionless down (G 13) The Day and the Night speak and say (G 14) I call my distant self, when you I see (G 15) From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain (G 16) Your heart is only merciless deceit, (G 17) The soul attempts a thousand remedies (G 18) Nature was right to place (G 19) Oh, your face is much sweeter than mustard (G 20) All men born to death arrive (G 21) What will happen to me? You can now throw (G 22) I, long ago, a thousand times was slain (G 23) Door to my poison I made of my eyes (G 24) A hapless slave long kept in chains or ropes (G 25) If, uprooted, alas, a tree ever should (G 26) Quick, run away from love, away from fire (G 27) Remembrance of your eyes, O love, and hope (G 28) Put on the armor of love and you’ll conquer (G 29) From the eyes of my love a lovely ray (G 30)

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First Lines in English

Alive to sin, to me I die alone (G 32) No, the life of my love is not my heart (G 34) When contracting, the lash seems not to cause (G 35) Not far from here my love once stole from me (G 36) In me is death, in you my life is all (G 37) So much delight into the heart descends (G 38) The medicine to Love’s horrendous blow (G 39) When, happy, Love decides to make me rise (G 40) O gentle soul in which we all can see (G 41) Tell me, I beg you. Love, if my eyes gaze (G 42) Happy in loving I still hope to be (G 43) Since only through the eyes my soul discerns (G 44) For all this anguish and for all this sighing (G 45) If my rough hammer gives a human face (G 46) When she, the cause of all my sighs and fears (G 47) As higher grows a flame, the more contended (G 48) You make me soar so high (G 49) Of her beauty, O Love, what will remain (G 50) Alas, alas, for I am now betrayed (G 51) If it were right to kill oneself, and be, (G 52) The horseman always riding in the night (G 53) Yes, I believe that if you were but stone, (G 54) Since by its scent I often know a street (G 55) I feed on my own death, and yet I feel (G 56) Who makes me die, he also makes me live (G 57) If the immortal longing of the mind (G 58) If a chaste love can suffer and console (G 59) You know, my Lord, that I know that you know (G 60) Had I believed, when I saw, bright and near (G 61) Only with fire a smith can shape and tame (G 62) So in love with the stone, in which it lies (G 63) Iron and stone are melted, split by fire (G 64) The very moment that I love you more (G 65) Perhaps to make me understand, and cry (G 66) O pleasure new, O most unusual bliss (G 67) There is a giant too, so very tall (G 68) Nature did all things well: great cruelty (G 69) O cruel star, – oh no – O cruel fate (G 70) Yes, I have got it – thanks – and I have read (G 71) Since in one’s face one’s heart you see and sense (G 72) If you detain me from the living fire (G 73) I cry, I burn, I waste away; my heart (G 74)



First Lines in English

How can you have him always in your way (G 75) Whether it be the long-desired light (G 76) If the fire that issues from your eyes (G 77) Into the ache of laughter from sweet cries (G 78) O happy soul, an old man’s heart – so close (G 79) I did believe, the day I suddenly (G 80) In everything I see I find advice (G 81) No beauty can I picture in my mind (G 82) My Lord, in your fair face I see all things (G 83) As in the pen or ink of any man (G 84) My Lord, the hour your letter came to me (G 85) Alas, I thought I had already shed (G 86) O let me wish what I want not, O Lord (G 87) From far away, a cold face utters, straight (G 88) Through your beautiful eyes I see a sun (G 89) I feel more precious, I am more than one (G 90) So that my life may last (G 91) Although time spurs me with a double war (G 92) Should the sense turn its flaming force away (G 93) Just as a silkworm with much selfless pain (G 94) Fountain and rill, give back my eyes a wave (G 95) As dry wood may I die in burning fire (G 96) A heart of sulphur, flesh of tow or flax (G 97) Why should I vent my burning longings out (G 98) While I was happy and the world was bright (G 99) Preparing for your eyes the brightest ray (G 100) Simply because the sun does not embrace (G 101) O night, O time of sweetness, although black (G 102) Every closed room and every hidden way (G 103) When He created time from nothing at all (G 104) No mortal thing my eyes in yours have found (G 105) To rise once more to heaven whence it came (G 106) My eyes, in love with all beautiful things (G 107) Man seeks in vain, as people still believe (G 108) Not always can the pleasure of the senses (G 109) I say to you, who to the world have given (G 110) My lady, though you are (G 111) Is there a safer refuge than my tears (G 112) It cannot be her sweet and holy eyes (G 113) Your eyes defeat all harshness (G 114) Gayety, guiles, caresses, feasts and pearls (G 115) O Love, despite your growing violence (G 116)

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First Lines in English

If it is true a beauteous thing can bring (G 117) Too many years have spent (G 118) From the first tears to the last desperate sigh (G 119) Now it is time you ended (G 120) As you must always be so beautiful (G 121) If fire harms all things (G 122) The more you see my torment on my face (G 123) This lady of mine is so ready and bold (G 124) This lady, dear and kind (G 125) If it is true that, freed from flesh, the soul (G 126) Not only death, the very fright of it (G 127) If frightening death forever (G 128) From greater light and from a greater star (G 129) Danger of loss eternal (G 130) Beneath two beautiful eyes (G 131) When all my past returns to grieve my mind (G 132) Led by so many years to my last hours (G 133) “O blessed souls above all misery (G 134) Knowing my life is running fast away (G 135) The soul outpours its inner, cooling tears (G 136) If, for a bit of joy, O cruel Love (G 137) Humbly and meekly to love’s yoke I yield (G 138) There never was a soul that breathed and moved (G 139) When your soul will resume (G 140) Although my greatest hope cannot achieve (G 141) Perhaps to keep the flame (G 142) The last day of my life is speeding fast (G 143) I look ahead with faith (G 144) If she is happy, and you. Love, can live (G 145) The glances you give others (G 146) Answer me, Love: had she a heart as kind (G 147) Powerful gods, I say that here, on earth (G 147 bis) My life would be much safer (G 148) I cannot be but failing (G 149) Great happiness, my lady, as great pain (G 150) The greatest artist has no single concept (G 151) My Lady, just as one already sees (G 152) Just as an empty form (G 153) You make me soar so high (G 154) Lady, your beauty and my destiny (G 155) To your so lofty lucent diadem (G 156)



First Lines in English

Lady, the spirits of life (G 157) O Love, you seem to chase (G 158) O noble Lady, countless times, to be (G 159) Should someone, much obliged, want to forget (G 160) Tell me, O soul, what file (G 161) Turning right, and then left, (G 162) The more I hate myself, the more I speed (G 163) As symbol of what I was to do (G 164) Through use, one’s easy eyes can become faint (G 165) Both far and near, my eyes can easily see (G 166) Death chases you, O Love, from that same place (G 167) Because that half of me, which comes from heaven, (G 168) This woman loves to play (G 169) Great beauty showering its ardent fire (G 170) Into the memory of all things fair (G 171) Indomitable, wild, (G 172) If, contented, the heart (G 173) With that alone, O lady, which I see (G 174) O Love, the least of all my ancient wounds (G 175) Did your beauty, perhaps, want to make sure? (G 176) Here lies that divine beauty Death offended (G 177) That new, high beauty I would gladly name (G 178) If, buried here, those beautiful eyes are closed (G 179) If you have any pity left for one (G 180) “O Death, why did you not await the years (G 181) With no weapon of age Death chose to slay (G 182) Sweet beauty, lying here, so much surpassed (G 183) My name is “Arms”: they had no sword nor sling (G 184) Here I am buried, who a while ago (G 185) God Who, through death, is keeping me still here (G 186) Being within, his own soul could not see (G 187) Since in this handsome face Nature was won (G 188) Here those sweet eyes are shut (O woe to us!) (G 189) They think me dead. To please the earth I lived (G 190) That the soul is alive beyond the fall (G 191) If it is true the soul, when ends our breath, (G 192) Oh, I had hardly seen those beautiful eyes (G 193) I am not dead, for now I dwell above, (G 194) “If but two hours can sweep a hundred years, (G 195) Happy am I for having died, oh long (G 196) The flesh, now earth, and my few bones, now ridden (G 197)

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First Lines in English

If people’s tears, to make me live again, (G 198) He who, seeing me dead, still cries and cries, (G 199) If once I was alive, you alone recall, (G 200) Now that from time’s swift treason I have fled, (G 201) I was a Bracci; though I am but shadow, (G 202) A Bracci I was born; after the tears (G 203) I was only alive; but, dead, I grew (G 204) If death has plucked a tender blossom here (G 205) From heaven all my perfect beauty came (G 206) I am of death, who once for a brief morn (G 207) The sun is buried, which you weep and mourn (G 208) A little longer must I sleep and pause (G 209) Once open, my sweet eyes to me were dear (G 210) If, when alive, I quenched somebody’s thirst (G 211) In wounding with his eyes he had no equal (G 212) Dead is that Braccio with whose face God planned (G 213) His splendor was our very life indeed (G 214) Death gave earth back to earth, the soul to God, (G 215) I keep the Braccio and his beauty’s life (G 216) If, like a phoenix, Bracci’s face should gain (G 217) With Bracci’s sun the sun of nature set (G 218) To me, a Bracci, death is life’s true lot (G 219) Cecchìn has laid, right here, so fair a glory (G 220) Here lies the Braccio: not a less sweet hymn (G 221) Here death has laid an “Arm” and picked a fruit (G 222) I am Cecchìn, once mortal, now divine (G 223) Here death has sealed sweet Cecchin Bracci’s eyes (G 224) I was a Bracci – beauty to adore – (G 225) Now dead, I know my spirit lives in heaven (G 226) The divine “Arm” has taken his fair dross (G 227) If the world lent him but the flesh, and God (G 228) Oh, rest assured, my eyes (G 229) So that your beauty to the world remain (G 230) Love, it is time you burned my heart no more (G 231) I trudge to meet my death (G 232) If a young heart is easily controlled (G 233) Lady, whatever does not come from you (G 234) Through the mouth of a woman speaks a god (G 235) After the divine part has well conceived (G 236) Sculpture, the first of arts, delights a taste (G 237) Seeking eternal life wherein to rest (G 238) Lady, through long experience we see (G 239)



First Lines in English

Out of a living stone (G 240) Patiently trying through long years of strife (G 241) If it is true, one often sculpts in stone (G 242) Whenever my bright idol comes to cheer (G 243) If sorrow, as they say, can make a face (G 244) Love, if my lady’s eyes were always mine (G 245) You are the only one who scorns my tears (G 246) While all about are harm and shame and woe (G 247) From heaven he came and saw with mortal eyes (G 248) “Lady, for many – for a thousand lovers (G 249) It’s hard to say of him ail that we should (G 250) Often in boundless kindness lies concealed (G 251) Because that gratitude which binds the soul (G 252) Had I been wise in my first years to shun (G 253) Lady, to me, weary and age-oppressed (G 254) When your sweet eyes you turn (G 255) If in a woman a part is beautiful (G 256) Why should it come so seldom, why so late (G 257) Though it is true, my lady (G 258) At times my hope is able to ascend (G 259) Not always man’s unquenchable desire (G 260) If waiting longer finds more happiness (G 261) Being a god, O Love (G 262) This new, singular beauty (G 263) I, who have borne for years, graved in my heart, (G 264) Not to take beauty back from many sources (G 265) How strange it is! When I was near the flashes (G 266) I feel constrained and blocked as is the marrow (G 267) Since age has stolen away from the world (G 268) Full, once, of cruel ice and burning flame (G 269) You give me only the superfluous (G 270) Long have I been, O Love, beneath your eyes (G 271) Give me the time when I had given rein (G 272) Only one is the sun that comes to rouse (G 273) O make me see you. Lord, in every place (G 274) From high mountains in ruinous debris (G 275) In just one instant beauty that I see (G 276) With etchings and with colors you have made (G 277) Who wants much more than leaves (G 278) The force of a fair face lifts me to heaven (G 279) For its unrest my soul can only scan (G 280) Even in ice my flame once found its way (G 281)

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First Lines in English

With so much servitude, with so much anguish (G 282) Youth, in its greenness, cannot know, O Lord (G 283) If for your name some image I conceive (G 284) Arrived already is my life’s brief course (G 285) My countless thoughts, so wrong and so astray (G 286) Since my first years, O Lord, from day to day (G 287) The fables of the world, as rushing wind (G 288) There is nothing on earth more base and vain (G 289) Relieved of an exacting, grievous weight (G 290) I know and feel that some mysterious stain (G 291) How sweetly would my prayers ever be (G 292) Burdened with age and ah, so full of sin (G 203) Though saddening and hurting, dear to me (G 294) Certain of death, not of its moment, I (G 295) Although my longing seem to promise more (G 296) Such a long time of foolish, evil passion (G 297) Both glad and sad the blessed spirits were (G 298) Sugar, a mare, and candles, plus a flask (G 299) Through cross and grace and through our human pain (G 300) My eyes are grieved by all the things they knew (G 301) There is no better way to make me stay (G 302) David with a sling (APP. G 3-4) At the sweet murmuring of a sweet rill (APP. G 5) I saw a lovely lady (APP. G 6) Fever, lumbago, and weak eyes and teeth (APP. G 16) She burns me, binds me, tastes like a lump of sugar (APP. G 17) Already immense, it penetrates my heart (APP. G 21) This is the way Daedalus arose (APP. G 24) One cannot love too well a face unseen (APP. G 26) Undone and burned and roasted by the sun and the summer (APP. G 29) My Lord, I sin, and all my sin I know (APP. G 31) No worth was mine (APP. G 34) There is no perfect art (APP. G 35) In my unhappiness your eyes can lend (APP. G 36) Whenever your great pity on me beams (APP. G 37) Does he recall old darts? I cannot tell (APP. G 38) What do you want me, Love, to feel and try? (APP. G 39) As no one is more beautiful than she (APP. G 19) It might well be remembrance of some blow (APP. G 76) The fire of your eyes, alive and swift (APP. G 88) Now in a dying glance I cannot see (Frey 30)



First Lines in English

First Lines in English (in Alphabetical Order) “If but two hours can sweep a hundred years, (G 195) “Lady, for many – for a thousand lovers (G 249) “O blessed souls above all misery (G 134) “O Death, why did you not await the years (G 181) A Bracci I was born; after the tears (G 203) A hapless slave, long kept in chains or ropes (G 25) A heart of sulphur, flesh of tow or flax (G 97) A little longer must I sleep and pause (G 209) After the divine part has well conceived (G 236) Alas, alas, for I am now betrayed (G 51) Alas, I thought I had already shed (G 86) Alive to sin, to me I die alone (G 32) All men born to death arrive (G 21) Already immense, it penetrates my heart (APP. G 21) Although my greatest hope cannot achieve (G 141) Although my longings seem to promise more (G 296) Although time spurs me with a double war (G 92) Answer me, Love: had she a heart as kind (G 147) Arrived already is my life’s brief course (G 285) As dry wood may I die in burning fire (G 96) As higher grows a flame, the more contended (G 48) As in the pen or ink of any man (G 84) As no one is more beautiful than she (APP. G 19) As symbol of what I was to do (G 164) As you must always be so beautiful (G 121) At the sweet murmuring of a sweet rill (APP. G 5) At times my hope is able to ascend (G 259) Because that gratitude which binds the soul (G 252) Because that half of me, which comes from heaven, (G 168) Being a god, O Love (G 262) Being within, his own soul could not see (G 187) Beneath two beautiful eyes (G 131) Both far and near, my eyes can easily see (G 166) Both glad and sad the blessed spirits were (G 298) Burdened with age and ah, so full of sin (G 203) Cecchìn has laid, right here, so fair a glory (G 220) Certain of death, not of its moment, I (G 295) Danger of loss eternal (G 130) David with a sling (APP. G 3-4)

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First Lines in English

Dead is that Braccio with whose face God planned (G 213) Death chases you, O Love, from that same place (G 167) Death gave earth back to earth, the soul to God, (G 215) Did your beauty, perhaps, want to make sure? (G 176) Does he recall old darts? I cannot tell (APP. G 38) Door to my poison I made of my eyes (G 24) Even in ice my flame once found its way (G 281) Every closed room and every hidden way (G 103) Fame keeps all epitaphs motionless down (G 13) Fever, lumbago, and weak eyes and teeth (APP. G 16) For all this anguish and for all this sighing (G 45) For its unrest my soul can only scan (G 280) Fountain and rill, give back my eyes a wave (G 95) From far away, a cold face utters, straight (G 88) From greater light and from a greater star (G 129) From heaven all my perfect beauty came (G 206) From heaven he came and saw with mortal eyes (G 248) From high mountains in ruinous debris (G 275) From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain (G 16) From the eyes of my love a lovely ray (G 30) From the first tears to the last desperate sigh (G 119) Full, once, of cruel ice and burning flame (G 269) Gayety, guiles, caresses, feasts and pearls (G 115) Give me the time when I had given rein (G 272) God Who, through death, is keeping me still here (G 186) Great beauty showering its ardent fire (G 170) Great happiness, my lady, as great pain (G 150) Had I been wise in my first years to shun (G 253) Had I believed, when I saw, bright and near (G 61) Happy am I for having died, oh long (G 196) Happy in loving I still hope to be (G 43) Having eschewed your lordship crude and sour (G 3) He who made all, created first each part (G 9) He who, seeing me dead, still cries and cries, (G 199) Here death has laid an “Arm” and picked a fruit (G 222) Here death has sealed sweet Cecchin Bracci’s eyes (G 224) Here I am buried, who a while ago (G 185) Here lies that divine beauty Death offended (G 177) Here lies the Braccio: not a less sweet hymn (G 221) Here those sweet eyes are shut (O woe to us!) (G 189) Here, to make swords and helmets, war devours (G 10) His splendor was our very life indeed (G 214)



First Lines in English

How can it be I am no longer I? (G 8) How can you have him always in your way (G 75) How glad that garland seems to be, and how (G 4) How shall I dare, my love, (G 12) How strange it is! When I was near the flashes (G 266) How sweetly would my prayers ever be (G 292) Humbly and meekly to love’s yoke I yield (G 138) I am Cecchìn, once mortal, now divine (G 223) I am not dead, for now I dwell above, (G 194) I am of death, who once for a brief morn (G 207) I call my distant self, when you I see (G 15) I cannot be but failing (G 149) I cry, I burn, I waste away; my heart (G 74) I did believe, the day I suddenly (G 80) I feed on my own death, and yet I feel (G 56) I feel constrained and blocked as is the marrow (G 267) I feel more precious, I am more than one (G 90) I keep the Braccio and his beauty’s life (G 216) I know and feel that some mysterious stain (G 291) I look ahead with faith (G 144) I saw a lovely lady (APP. G 6) I say to you, who to the world have given (G 110) I trudge to meet my death (G 232) I was a Bracci – beauty to adore – (G 225) I was a Bracci; though I am but shadow, (G 202) I was only alive; but, dead, I grew (G 204) I, long ago, a thousand times was slain (G 23) I, who have borne for years, graved in my heart, (G 264) I’ve developed a goitre, in this chagrin (G 5) If a chaste love can suffer and console (G 59) If a young heart is easily controlled (G 233) If death has plucked a tender blossom here (G 205) If fire harms all things (G 122) If for your name some image I conceive (G 284) If frightening death forever (G 128) If in a woman a part is beautiful (G 256) If it is true a beauteous thing can bring (G 117) If it is true that, freed from flesh, the soul (G 126) If it is true the soul, when ends our breath, (G 192) If it is true, one often sculpts in stone (G 242) If it were right to kill oneself, and be, (G 52) If my rough hammer gives a human face (G 46)

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First Lines in English

If once I was alive, you alone recall, (G 200) If people’s tears, to make me live again, (G 198) If she is happy, and you. Love, can live (G 145) If sorrow, as they say, can make a face (G 244) If the fire that issues from your eyes (G 77) If the immortal longing of the mind (G 58) If the world lent him but the flesh, and God (G 228) If waiting longer finds more happiness (G 261) If you detain me from the living fire (G 73) If you have any pity left for one (G 180) If, buried here, those beautiful eyes are closed (G 179) If, contented, the heart (G 173) If, for a bit of joy, O cruel Love (G 137) If, like a phoenix, Bracci’s face should gain (G 217) If, uprooted, alas, a tree ever should (G 26) If, when alive, I quenched somebody’s thirst (G 211) In everything I see I find advice (G 81) In just one instant beauty that I see (G 276) In me is death, in you my life is all (G 37) In my unhappiness your eyes can lend (APP. G 36) In wounding with his eyes he had no equal (G 212) Indomitable, wild, (G 172) Into the ache of laughter from sweet cries (G 78) Into the memory of all things fair (G 171) Iron and stone are melted, split by fire (G 64) Is there a safer refuge than my tears (G 112) It cannot be her sweet and holy eyes (G 113) It might well be remembrance of some blow (APP. G 76) It’s hard to say of him ail that we should (G 250) Just as a silkworm with much selfless pain (G 94) Just as an empty form (G 153) Knowing my life is running fast away (G 135) Lady, the spirits of life (G 157) Lady, through long experience we see (G 239) Lady, to me, weary and age-oppressed (G 254) Lady, whatever does not come from you (G 234) Lady, your beauty and my destiny (G 155) Led by so many years to my last hours (G 133) Long have I been, O Love, beneath your eyes (G 271) Love, if my lady’s eyes were always mine (G 245) Love, it is time you burned my heart no more (G 231) Man seeks in vain, as people still believe (G 108)



First Lines in English

My countless thoughts, so wrong and so astray (G 286) My eyes are grieved by all the things they knew (G 301) My eyes, in love with all beautiful things (G 107) My heart still burning, in the shade I alone (G 2) My Lady, just as one already sees (G 152) My lady, though you are (G 111) My life would be much safer (G 148) My Lord, I sin, and all my sin I know (APP. G 31) My Lord, in your fair face I see all things (G 83) My Lord, of all our ancient proverbs, one (G 6) My Lord, the hour your letter came to me (G 85) My name is “Arms”: they had no sword nor sling (G 184) Nature did all things well: great cruelty (G 69) Nature was right to place (G 19) No beauty can I picture in my mind (G 82) No mortal thing my eyes in yours have found (G 105) No worth was mine (APP. G 34) No, the life of my love is not my heart (G 34) Not always can the pleasure of the senses (G 109) Not always man’s unquenchable desire (G 260) Not far from here my love once stole from me (G 36) Not only death, the very fright of it (G 127) Not to take beauty back from many sources (G 265) Now dead, I know my spirit lives in heaven (G 226) Now in a dying glance I cannot see (Frey 30) Now it is time you ended (G 120) Now that from time’s swift treason I have fled, (G 201) O cruel star, – oh no – O cruel fate (G 70) O gentle soul in which we all can see (G 41) O happy soul, an old man’s heart – so close (G 79) O let me wish what I want not, O Lord (G 87) O Love, despite your growing violence (G 116) O Love, the least of all my ancient wounds (G 175) O Love, you seem to chase (G 158) O make me see you. Lord, in every place (G 274) O night, O time of sweetness, although black (G 102) O noble Lady, countless times, to be (G 159) O pleasure new, O most unusual bliss (G 67) O sweeter much a sudden death would be (G 11) Of her beauty, O Love, what will remain (G 50) Often in boundless kindness lies concealed (G 251) Oh, I had hardly seen those beautiful eyes (G 193)

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First Lines in English

Oh, rest assured, my eyes (G 229) Oh, your face is much sweeter than mustard (G 20) Once open, my sweet eyes to me were dear (G 210) One cannot love too well a face unseen (APP. G 26) Only one is the sun that comes to rouse (G 273) Only with fire a smith can shape and tame (G 62) Out of a living stone (G 240) Patiently trying through long years of strife (G 241) Perhaps to keep the flame (G 142) Perhaps to make me understand, and cry (G 66) Powerful gods, I say that here, on earth (G 147 bis) Preparing for your eyes the brightest ray (G 100) Put on the armor of love and you’ll conquer (G 29) Quick, run away from love, away from fire (G 27) Relieved of an exacting, grievous weight (G 290) Remembrance of your eyes, O love, and hope (G 28) Sculpture, the first of arts, delights a taste (G 237) Seeking eternal life wherein to rest (G 238) She burns me, binds me, tastes like a lump of sugar (APP. G 17) Should someone, much obliged, want to forget (G 160) Should the sense turn its flaming force away (G 93) Simply because the sun does not embrace (G 101) Since age has stolen away from the world (G 268) Since by its scent I often know a street (G 55) Since in one’s face one’s heart you see and sense (G 72) Since in this handsome face Nature was won (G 188) Since my first years, O Lord, from day to day (G 287) Since only through the eyes my soul discerns (G 44) So in love with the stone, in which it lies (G 63) So much delight into the heart descends (G 38) So that my life may last (G 91) So that your beauty to the world remain (G 230) Such a long time of foolish, evil passion (G 297) Sugar, a mare, and candles, plus a flask (G 299) Sweet beauty, lying here, so much surpassed (G 183) Tell me, I beg you. Love, if my eyes gaze (G 42) Tell me, O soul, what file (G 161) That new, high beauty I would gladly name (G 178) That the soul is alive beyond the fall (G 191) The Day and the Night speak and say (G 14) The divine “Arm” has taken his fair dross (G 227) The fables of the world, as rushing wind (G 288)



First Lines in English

337

The fire of your eyes, alive and swift (APP. G 88) The flesh, now earth, and my few bones, now ridden (G 197) The force of a fair face lifts me to heaven (G 279) The glances you give others (G 146) The greatest artist has no single concept (G 151) The horseman always riding in the night (G 53) The last day of my life is speeding fast (G 143) The medicine to Love’s horrendous blow (G 39) The more I hate myself, the more I speed (G 163) The more you see my torment on my face (G 123) The soul attempts a thousand remedies (G 18) The soul outpours its inner, cooling tears (G 136) The sun is buried, which you weep and mourn (G 208) The very moment that I love you more (G 65) There is a giant too, so very tall (G 68) There is no better way to make me stay (G 302) There is no perfect art (APP. G 35) There is nothing on earth more base and vain (G 289) There never was a soul that breathed and moved (G 139) They think me dead. To please the earth I lived (G 190) This is the way Daedalus arose (APP. G 24) This lady of mine is so ready and bold (G 124) This lady, dear and kind (G 125) This new, singular beauty (G 263) This woman loves to play (G 169) Though it is true, my lady (G 258) Though saddening and hurting, dear to me (G 294) Through cross and grace and through our human pain (G 300) Through the mouth of a woman speaks a god (G 235) Through use, one’s easy eyes can become faint (G 165) Through your beautiful eyes I see a sun (G 89) To me, a Bracci, death is life’s true lot (G 219) To rise once more to heaven whence it came (G 106) To your so lofty lucent diadem (G 156) Too many years have spent (G 118) Turning right, and then left, (G 162) Undone and burned and roasted by the sun and the summer (APP. G 29) What do you want me, Love, to feel and try? (APP. G 39) What will happen to me? You can now throw (G 22) When all my past returns to grieve my mind (G 132) When contracting, the lash seems not to cause (G 35) When He created time from nothing at all (G 104)

338

First Lines in English

When she, the cause of all my sighs and fears (G 47) When your soul will resume (G 140) When your sweet eyes you turn (G 255) When, happy, Love decides to make me rise (G 40) Whenever my bright idol comes to cheer (G 243) Whenever your great pity on me beams (APP. G 37) Whether it be the long-desired light (G 76) While all about are harm and shame and woe (G 247) While I was happy and the world was bright (G 99) Who is the one that draws me to you ever (G 7) Who makes me die, he also makes me live (G 57) Who wants much more than leaves (G 278) Why should I vent my burning longings out (G 98) Why should it come so seldom, why so late (G 257) With Bracci’s sun the sun of nature set (G 218) With etchings and with colors you have made (G 277) With no weapon of age Death chose to slay (G 182) With so much servitude, with so much anguish (G 282) With that alone, O lady, which I see (G 174) Yes, I believe that if you were but stone, (G 54) Yes, I have got it – thanks – and I have read (G 71) You are the only one who scorns my tears (G 246) You give me only the superfluous (G 270) You know, my Lord, that I know that you know (G 60) You make me soar so high (G 154) Your beauty, Love, is not a mortal thing; (G 49) Your eyes defeat all harshness (G 114) Your heart is only merciless deceit, (G 17) Youth, in its greenness, cannot know, O Lord (G 283)