1. 'Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono'

You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes, 
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,

I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials. 

Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;

and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world's delight is a brief dream.

2. 'Per fare una leggiadra sua vendetta'

To make a graceful act of revenge,
and punish a thousand wrongs in a single day,
Love secretly took up his bow again,
like a man who waits the time and place to strike.

My power was constricted in my heart,
making defence there, and in my eyes,
when the mortal blow descended there,
where all other arrows had been blunted.

So, confused by the first assault,
it had no opportunity or strength
to take up arms when they were needed,

or withdraw me shrewdly to the high, 
steep hill, out of the torment,
from which it wishes to save me now but cannot.

3. 'Era il giorno ch'al sol si scoloraro'

It was on that day when the sun's ray
was darkened in pity for its Maker,
that I was captured, and did not defend myself,
because your lovely eyes had bound me, Lady.

It did not seem to me to be a time to guard myself
against Love's blows: so I went on
confident, unsuspecting; from that, my troubles
started, amongst the public sorrows.

Love discovered me all weaponless,
and opened the way to the heart through the eyes,
which are made the passageways and doors of tears:

so that it seems to me it does him little honour
to wound me with his arrow, in that state,
he not showing his bow at all to you who are armed.



4 'Que' ch'infinita providentia et arte'

What infinite providence and art 
He showed in his wonderful mastery,
who created this and the other hemisphere,
and Jupiter far gentler than Mars,

descending to earth to illuminate the page
which had for many years concealed the truth,
taking John from the nets, and Peter,
and making them part of heaven's kingdom.

It did not please him to be born in Rome,
but in Judea: to exalt humility
to such a supreme state always pleases him;

and now from a little village a sun is given,
such that the place, and nature, praise themselves,
out of which so lovely a lady is born to the world.


5. 'Quando io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi,'
 
When I utter sighs, in calling out to you,
with the name that Love wrote on my heart,
the sound of its first sweet accents begin
to be heard within the word LAUdable.

Your REgal state, that I next encounter,
doubles my power for the high attempt;
but: 'TAcit', the ending cries, 'since to do her honour
is for other men's shoulders, not for yours'.

So, whenever one calls out to you,
the voice itself teaches us to LAud, REvere,
you, O, lady worthy of all reverence and honour:

except perhaps that Apollo is disdainful
that morTAl tongue can be so presumptuous
as to speak of his eternally green branches.

6. 'Sí travïato è 'l folle mi' desio'

My passion's folly is so led astray
by following what turns and flees,
and flies from Love's light supple noose
in front of my slow pace,

that the more I recall its steps
to the safe road, the less it hears me:
nor does spurring on help me, or turning about,
resisting what Love does by nature.

And then if the bit gathers me to him by force,
I remain in his sovereign power,
so that my state carries me sadly towards death:

only to come to the laurel from which is culled
bitter fruit, whose taste is a worse wound 
for others, whom it does not solace.


7. 'La gola e 'l sonno et l'otïose piume'

Greed and sleep and slothful beds
have banished every virtue from the world,
so that, overcome by habit,
our nature has almost lost its way.

And all the benign lights of heaven,
that inform human life, are so spent,
that he who wishes to bring down a stream
from Helicon is pointed out as a wonder. 

Such desire for laurel, and for myrtle?
'Poor and naked goes philosophy',
say the crowd intent on base profit.

You'll have poor company on that other road:
So much the more I beg you, gentle spirit,
not to turn from your great undertaking.

8. ' A pie' de' colli ove la bella vesta'

At the foot of the hill where beauty's garment
first clothed that lady with earthly members,
who has often sent wakefulness to him,
who sends us to you, out of melancholy sleep,

we passed by freely in peace through this
mortal life, that all creatures yearn for, 
without suspicion of finding, on the way,
anything that would trouble our going. 

But in the miserable state where we are
driven from that other serene life
we have one solace only, that is death:

which is his retribution, who led him to this,
he who, in another's power, near to the end,
remains bound with a heavier chain.

9. 'Quando 'l pianeta che distingue l'ore'

When the heavenly body that tells the hours
has returned to the constellation of Taurus,
power from the burning horns descends
that clothes the world with new colours:

and not only in that which lies before us,
banks and hills, adorned with flowers,
but within where already the earthly moisture 
pregnant with itself, adds nothing further,

so that fruits and such are gathered:
as she, who is the sun among those ladies,
shining the rays of her lovely eyes on me

creates thoughts of love, actions and words;
but whether she governs them or turns away,
there is no longer any Spring for me.

10. 'Gloriosa columna in cui s'appoggia'

Glorious pillar in whom rests
our hope and the great Latin name,
that Jupiter's anger through wind and rain 
still does not twist from the true way,

who raise our intellect from earth to heaven,
not in a palace, a theatre, or arcade,
but instead in fir, beech or pine,
on the green grass and the lovely nearby mountain,

from which poetry descends and rests;
and the nightingale that laments and weeps
all night long, sweetly, in the shadows,

fills the heart with thoughts of love:
but you by departing from us my lord, 
only cut off such beauty, and make it imperfect.

Note: Stefano Colonna ('the column') is referred to. 
His son Cardinal Giovanni was Petrarch's patron,
another son Giacomo was Bishop of Lombez in the Pyrenees. 

11. 'Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombra'

I have not seen you, lady,
leave off your veil in sun or shadow,
since you knew that great desire in myself
that all other wishes in the heart desert me.

While I held the lovely thoughts concealed,
that make the mind desire death,
I saw your face adorned with pity:
but when Love made you wary of me,

then blonde hair was veiled,
and loving glances gathered to themselves.
That which I most desired in you is taken from me:

the veil so governs me
that to my death, and by heat and cold,
the sweet light of your lovely eyes is shadowed. 
 

12. 'Se la mia vita da l'aspro tormento'

If my life of bitter torment and of tears
could be derided more, and made more troubled,
that I might see, by virtue of your later years,
lady, the light quenched of your beautiful eyes,

and the golden hair spun fine as silver,
and the garland laid aside and the green clothes,
and the delicate face fade, that makes me
fearful and slow to go weeping:

then Love might grant me such confidence
that I'd reveal to you my sufferings
the years lived through, and the days and hours:

and if time is opposed to true desire,
it does not mean no food would nourish my grief:
I might draw some from slow sighs.


13. 'Quando fra l'altre donne ad ora ad ora'

When from hour to hour among the other ladies
Love appears in her beautiful face,
by as much as their beauty is less than hers
by so much the desire that en-amours me grows.

I bless the place, the time, and the hour
in which my eyes gazed to such a height,
and I say: My spirit, give thanks enough
that you were then found worthy of such honour.

From her to you comes loving thought,
that leads to highest good, while you pursue it,
counting as little what all men desire:

from her comes that spirit full of grace
that shows you heaven by the true way':
so that in hope I fly, already, to the heights.

14. 'Occhi mei lassi, mentre ch'io vi giro'


My weary eyes, there, while I turn you
towards the lovely face of her who slays you,
I pray you guard yourself
since, already, Love challenges you, so that I sigh.

Only Death can close from my thoughts
the loving path that leads them
to the sweet doorway of their blessing;
but your light can hide itself from you
for less reason, since you are formed
as lesser entities, and of less power.
But, grieve, before the hour of tears
is come, that is already near,
take to the end now
brief comfort from such long suffering.


15. 'Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo'

I turn back at every step I take
with weary body that has borne great pain,
and take comfort then from your aspect
that make me go on, saying: Ah me!

Then thinking of the sweet good I leave,
of the long road, and of my brief life,
I halt my steps, dismayed and pale,
and lower my eyes weeping to the ground.

Sometimes a doubt assails me in the midst
of sad tears: how can these limbs
live separated from their spirit?

But Love replies: Do you not remember
that this is the privilege of lovers,
freed from every other human tie?

16. 'Movesi il vecchierel canuto et biancho'

Grizzled and white the old man leaves
the sweet place, where he has provided for his life,
and leaves the little family, filled with dismay
that sees its dear father failing it:

then, from there, dragging his aged limbs
through the last days of his life,
aiding himself by what strength of will he can,
broken by years, and wearied by the road:

he reaches Rome, following his desire,
to gaze on the image of Him
whom he hopes to see again in heaven:

so, alas, I sometimes go searching,
lady, as far as is possible, in others
for the true, desired form of you.

17. 'Piovonmi amare lagrime del viso'

Bitter tears pour down my face
with an anguished storm of sighing,
when my eyes chance to turn on you
through whom alone I am lost from the world.

Yet it is true that your soft gentle smile
quietens my ardent desires,
and saves me from the fire of suffering,
while I am intent and fixed on gazing.

But then my spirits are chilled, when I see,
at your departure, my fatal stars
turn their sweet aspect from me.

Released at last by those loving keys,
the spirit leaves the heart to follow you,
and in deep thought, walks on from there.

18. 'Quan'io son tutto vòlto in quella parte'

When I have turned my eyes to that place
where my lady's lovely face shines,
and that light leaves me not a thought
while I burn and melt away inside,

I fear lest my heart parts from my self,
and seeing the end of my light nearing,
I go like a blind man, without light,
who knows no way to go, but must depart.

I receive so many deadly blows
I flee: but not so quickly that desire
does not come with me as is his wont.

I go silently, since one deadly word
would make men weep: and I desire
that my tears might be shed alone.



19. 'Son animali al mondo de sí altera'

There are creatures in the world with such other
vision that it is protected from the full sun:
yet others, because the great light offends them
cannot move around until the evening falls:

and others with mad desire, that hope
perhaps to delight in fire, because it gleams,
prove the other power, that which burns:
alas, and my place is with these last.

I am not strong enough to gaze at the light
of that lady, and do not know how to make a screen
from shadowy places, or the late hour:

yet, with weeping and infirm eyes, my fate
leads me to look on her: and well I know
I wish to go beyond the fire that burns me.

20. 'Vergognando talor ch'ancor si taccia,'

Ashamed sometimes that your beauty,
lady, is still silent in my verses,
I recall that time when I first saw it,
such that nothing else could ever please me.

But I find the weight too great for my shoulder,
a work not to be polished by my skill:
the more my wit exercises its force
the more its whole action grows cold.

Many times my lips have opened to speak,
but my voice is stilled in my chest:
who is he who could climb so high?

Many times I've begun to scribble verses:
but the pen, the hand, and the intellect
fell back defeated at their first attempt.



21. 'Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera,'

I have offered you my heart a thousand times
O my sweet warrior, only to make peace
with your lovely eyes: but it does not please you
with your noble mind, to stoop so low.

And if some other lady has hope of it,
she lives in powerless, deceiving hope:
and it can never be what it was to me,
since I too disdain what does not please you.

Now if I banish it, and it does not find in you
any aid in its unhappy exile, nor knows
how to be alone, nor to go where others call to it,

it might stray from its natural course:
which would be a grave crime for both of us,
and more for you, since it loves you more.

22. 'A qualunque animale alberga in terra,' (Sestina)

The time to labour, for every animal
that inhabits earth, is when it is still day,
except for those to whom the sun is hateful:
but then when heaven sets fire to its stars,
some turn for home and some nestle in the woods
to find some rest before the dawn.

And I may not cease to sigh with the sun,
from when dawn begins to scatter
the shadows from around the Earth,
waking the animals in every woodland:
yet when I see the flaming of the stars
I go weeping, and desire the day.

When the evening drives out daylight's clarity,
and our shadow makes another's dawn,
I gaze pensively at cruel stars,
that have created me of sentient earth:
and I curse the day I saw the sun,
that makes me in aspect like a wild man of the woods.

I do not think that any creature so harsh
grazed the woods, either by night or day,
as she, through whom I weep in sun or shade:
and I am not wearied by first sleep or dawn:
for though I am mortal body of this earth,
my fixed desire comes from the stars.

Might I see pity in her, for one day,
before I return to you, bright stars,
or turning back into cherished woodland,
leave my body changed to dry earth,
it would restore many years, and before dawn
enrich me at the setting of the sun.


May I be with her when the sun departs,
and seen by no one but the stars,
for one sole night, and may there be no dawn:
and may she not be changed to green woodland,
issuing from my arms, as on the day
when Apollo pursued her down here on earth.

But I will be beneath the wood's dry earth,
and daylight will be full of little stars,
before the sun achieves so sweet a dawn.

Note. Apollo pursued Daphne who was transformed 
into a laurel bough, a play on Laura's name.

23. 'Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade'

I'll sing of the sweet time of my first youth,
that saw the birth and the first leafing
of fierce desire that blossomed to my hurt,
since grief is rendered less bitter by being sung:
I'll sing of when I lived in liberty,
while Love was disdained in my house.
Then follow it with how I scorned him
too deeply, and say what came of it,
of how I was made an example to many men:
even though my harsh ruin
is written of elsewhere, so that a thousand pens
are not yet weary of it, and almost every valley
echoes again to the sound of my deep sighs
that add credence to my painful life.
And if memory does not aid me 
as it once did, blame my sufferings,
and one thought which is anguished
it makes me turn my back on every other,
and by the same light makes me forget myself:
ruling what is inside me, I the shell.


I say that many years had passed 
since Love tried his first assault on me,
so that I had lost my juvenile aspect,
and frozen thoughts about my heart
had almost made a covering of enamel,
so that its hardness left nothing lacking.
Still no tears had bathed my cheeks,
my sleep unbroken, and what I could not feel
seemed like a marvel to me in others.
Alas what am I? What was I?
Life is ended, and evening crowns the day.
That savage adversary of whom I speak,
seeing at last that not a single shot
of his had even pierced my clothes,
brought a powerful lady to help him,
against whom intellect, or force, 
or asking mercy never were or are of value:
and the two transformed me to what I am,
making green laurel from a living man,
that loses no leaves in the coldest season.


What a state I was in when I first realized
the transfiguration of my person,
and saw my hair formed of those leaves
that I had hoped might yet crown me,
and my feet with which I stand, move, run,
since each member accords with the spirit,
turned into two roots by the water
not of Peneus, but a nobler river,
and both my arms changed to branches!
The memory still chills me,
of being clothed then in white plumage,
when my hope that had tried to climb too high 
was lightning-struck and lying dead,
and I, who had no idea where or when
I might retrieve it, went weeping alone
day and night where I had lost it,
searching the banks and beneath the water:
and while I might my tongue was never silent 
from that moment about hope's evil fall:
until I took on, with its voice, the colour of a swan.

So I went along the pleasant stream,
and wishing to speak I found I always sang,
calling for mercy in a strange voice,
but never making my loving sorrows echo
in so sweet or in so soft a mode
as to make that harsh and savage heart relent.
What was it to feel so? How the memory burns me:
but I need to say more than this
of my sweet and bitter enemy,
more than ever before,
though she is such as is beyond all telling.
She who maddens men with her gaze,
opened my chest, and took my heart in her hand,
saying to me: 'Speak no word of this.'
Then I saw her alone, in a different dress,
so that I did not know her, oh human senses,
and full of fear told her the truth:
and she turning quickly back 
to her usual guise, made me, alas, 
semi-living and dumb stone.

She spoke to me, so angered in aspect
that she made me tremble inside the rock,
saying: 'Perhaps I am not what you believe.'
And I said to myself: 'If only she releases me
from the rock, no life will make me troubled or sad:
return, my lord, and let me weep.'
I moved my feet then, I don't know how,
still blaming no-one but my own self,
between living and dying, all that day.
But because the time is short
my pen cannot keep pace with my true will:
I must pass over many more things
inscribed in my mind, and only speak of those
that will seem marvellous to those who hear.
Death circled round about my heart,
which I could not rescue by being silent,
nor could I help my afflicted senses:
a living voice was forbidden me:
so I cried out with paper and ink:
'I am not my own. If I die the loss is yours.'

I truly thought I could turn myself in her eyes
from worthlessness to a thing of worth,
and that hope had made me eager:
but hope at times is quenched by disdain
at times takes fire: and so I found it then,
placed in the shadows for so long,
for at my prayers my true light had left me.
And not finding a shadow of her, her or there,
nor even the print of her foot,
one day I flung myself down on the grass
like a traveller who sleeps on the way.
Accusing the fugitive ray of light, from there,
I loosed the reins of my sad tears,
and let them fall as they wished,
I felt myself melt wholly, as snow
never vanished so in the sun,
becoming a fount at a beech-tree's foot.
I held that moist course for a length of time.
Who ever heard of fountains born of men?
Yet I tell you something manifest and known.

The soul whose gentleness is all from God,
since such grace could come from nowhere else,
holds a virtue like that of its maker:
it grants pardon, and never wearies,
to him of humble face and heart,
whatever sins he comes to mercy with.
And if contrary to its nature it suffers
being prayed to often, it mirrors Him,
and so makes the sin more fearful:
for he does not truly repent
who prepares for one sin with another.
So my lady moved by pity
deigned to look down on me, and seeing 
I revealed a punishment matched to the sin,
she kindly returned me to my first state.
But there's nothing a man can trust to in this world:
praying to her still, I felt my bone and nerves
turn to hard flint: and only a voice shaken 
from my former being remained,
calling on Death, and calling her by name.

A grieving spirit (I recall) I wandered
through empty and alien caverns,
weeping my errant ardour for many years:
and at least reached its end,
and I returned to my earthly limbs,
I think in order to suffer greater pain.
I followed my desire so closely
that hunting one day as was my custom,
I saw that creature, wild and beautiful,
standing naked
in a pool, when the sun shone most brightly.
I, because no other sight so pleases me,
stood and gazed: she covered in her shame:
and for revenge or to hide herself,
she splashed water in my face, with her hand.
I speak the truth (though I may seem to lie)
that I felt myself altered from my true form,
and swiftly transmuted to a lonely stag,
wandering from wood to wood:
and fleeing from my own pack of hounds.

Song, I was never that golden cloud
that once fell as a precious shower,
so that Jove's flame was quenched a little:
but I have been the fire that a lovely look kindled,
and the bird that rises highest in the air,
exalting her with my words in honour:
nor could I leave the highest laurel
for some new shape, for by its sweet shade
all lesser beauties that please the heart are scattered.

Notes: Daphne was changed to a laurel on the banks 
of the Peneus. Petrarch compares it with the Sorgue, 
Durance, or Rhone. Cycnus was changed into a swan
mourning for Phaethon. Battus revealed a secret, 
to Mercury in disguise, and was turned to flint. 
Byblis was turned into a fountain, after rejecting
her brother's love. Echo turned into a voice echoing
Narcissus. Actaeon saw Diana bathing and was turned 
into a stag and hunted to death by his hounds. Jupiter 
raped Danae in a shower of gold, and as an eagle 
carried off Ganymede. See Ovid's Metamorphoses
for all these references.

24. 'Se l'onorata fronde che prescrive'

If the honoured branch that wards off
heaven's anger when great Jupiter thunders
had not refused me its laurel crown
which usually wreathes those who write poetry,

I would be a friend of those Muses of yours
that this unworthy age has abandoned:
but that injustice keeps me far from
Minerva who first gave us olive trees:

for the sands of Ethiopia could not burn
hotter under the burning sun than I blaze
at losing a thing so beloved, as my own.

Search out a steadier fount than mine,
which only wells in an impoverished stream,
except for that which distils from my tears.

Note: A reply to a poem from Andrea Stramazzo 
da Perugia, asking for verses.

25. 'Amor piangeva, et io con lui tavolta'

Love wept, and sometimes I wept with him,
from whom my steps never strayed far,
gazing, since the effect was bitter and strange,
at your spirit, set loose from all Love's bonds.

Now God has returned you to the true way,
I lift my hands with all my heart to heaven,
thankful to him who in his mercy listens
benignly to honest human prayers.

And if in returning to the loving path,
you found hills and ditches in your way
enough to almost make you turn back,

it was to show how thorny is the road,
and how mountainous and hard the climb,
if a man would find where true worth lies.

26. 'Piú di me lieta non si vede a terra'

No ship, beaten and conquered by the waves,
ever made land more happily than me,
when people who were crying for mercy
kneel down on the shore to give thanks:

he who has the rope already round his neck
is no happier to be freed from his bonds,
than me, seeing all those swords shattered
that made so long a war against my lord.

And all who praise Love in your rhymes,
give honour now to the true writer 
of loving songs who once went astray:

for there's more joy, in the realms of the chosen,
in a penitent spirit, and he is more esteemed
than the ninety-nine others who were perfect.

Note: See Luke XV.7


27. 'Il successor di Karlo, che la chioma'

Charlemagne's scion, whose head is adorned
with the royal crown of his ancestor,
has taken up arms to bring Babylon down
and all that take their name from her.

and the Vicar of Christ returns to the nest
with the mantle and the burdensome keys,
and if no further accident deters him,
he'll reach Bologna, and then noble Rome.

That mild and gentle lamb of yours
destroys the fierce wolves: and so may it be
with all who shatter lawful alliances.

Console her then, you whom she waits for,
and Rome who still complains of her spouse,
and take up the sword now for Christ.

Notes: Philip VI of France proclaimed a crusade in 1333
against Islam, symbolised here by Babylon.
The Papacy is to return from Avignon to Rome.
The poem may be addressed to Orso dell'Anguillara.


28. 'O aspectata in ciel beata et bella'

O blessed and lovely spirit expected in Heaven
truly clothed with our humanity,
but not imprisoned in it like others:
oh God's delight, obedient servant,
so that you ever find the gentler road,
by which we cross from here to his kingdom,
see how recently your boat 
has turned its back on the blind world
to sail to a better harbour
with the sweet comfort of a western wind:
you'll be conducted through the midst
of this dark valley where we weep for our
and another's sin, from ancient bonds broken,
through the straightest path,
to the true East, towards which you have turned.

Perhaps the devoted and loving prayers
and the sacred tears of mortal beings
have made their way towards the highest pity:
and perhaps they were not great enough nor such
as to merit eternal justice bending
even a little from its course:
but the benign king who governs the heavens
through grace turns his eyes
to the sacred place where one hung on the cross,
breathing vengeance into the heart 
of the new Charlemagne, so that delay would hurt us,
since Europe has sighed for it for many years:
so he brings aid to his beloved spouse
so that merely at his voice
Babylon trembles, and stands amazed.

Every place between the Garonne and the mountains,
between Rhone and Rhine and the salt waves
follows the highest ensign of Christ:
and those who ever sought true honour,
from the Pyrenees to the furthest horizon
empty Spain to follow Aragon:
England with the islands Ocean bathes
between the Pillars and the Bear,
as far as where the doctrine resounds
from the most sacred Helicon,
men of varied tongues and arms and dress,
spur to Heaven's high enterprise.
What love, so lawful and worthy,
whether of children or of wife,
was the subject of such a just design?

There is a part of the world frozen,
always beneath the ice and cold snow,
so far is it from the sun's path:
the day there is clouded and brief,
and bears a people that death does not grieve,
the natural enemies of peace.
So that if they became more devout than they are,
and took up swords with German fury,
we would soon find out the worth
of the Turks, and Arabs, and Chaldeans,
with all the gods they place their hopes in,
this side of the sea with blood-red waters:
lazy and fearful, naked peoples,
who never fight with steel,
but commit their weapons to the winds.

Now is the time to throw off the yoke
of ancient slavery, and the thick veil
that has long been draped over our eyes:
and for the noble wit you possess
from heaven by the grace of the immortal Apollo,
and your eloquence, to show its power
now in the spoken, now the written word:
for if you don't marvel at the legends
of Orpheus and Amphion, 
less should you at rousing Italy's sons
with the sound of your clear speech,
so they take up the lance for Christ:
for if this ancient motherland seeks truth,
in none of her intentions
was ever so lovely or noble a cause.

You who've enriched yourself
turning the ancient and modern pages,
flying to heaven in an earthly body,
you know, from the empire of Mars' son
to when great Augustus three times 
crowned his head with green laurel,
how many times through injury to others
Rome was generous with her blood:
and should she not be now,
not generous but dutiful and pious
in avenging the impious injury
to the Son of our glorious Mary?
What hope can the enemy have
or human defence
if Christ fights against them?


Remember the rash audacity of Xerxes
who outraged the sea with alien bridges
made in order to land on our shores:
and see how all the Persian women
were dressed in black for their dead husbands:
and the sea at Salamis tinted red.
And not only is victory promised 
by that ruinous misery for the sad
Eastern peoples,
but Marathon, and that vital pass
that the Spartan lion defended with the few,
and other battles you have heard of or read:
so we should certainly bow to God,
our knees and spirit,
He who has preserved our age for so much good.

Song, you'll see Italy and the famous river,
not hidden from my eyes, not concealed
by sea, or hill, or stream,
but only by Love that with his other light
binds me closer the more he fires me:
nor is Nature more opposed to habit.
Now go, without losing other friends,
since Love for which we smile and weep
does not live only beneath women's veils. 

Notes: Addressed to Giacomo Colonna. Amphion
and Orpheus moved stones and trees with their music.
Romulus was the son of Mars. Xerxes famously bridged
the Hellespont but was countered at the naval battle
of Salamis in 480BC. Darius his father had been defeated
at Marathon in 490BC. Leonidas, the Spartan King, stalled
the Persians at Thermopylae through his heroic resistance.

29. 'Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi'

Green dresses, crimson, black or purple,
were never worn by ladies,
nor golden hair tied in a fair braid,
as beautifully as she who robs me
of my will, and takes away the path
of my liberty, so I cannot even
tolerate a lighter yoke.

And even if my spirit begins to grieve,
losing its judgement,
when suffering brings doubt,
the loose will is quickly restrained
by the sight of her, who razes from my heart
every mad project, and makes all
disdain sweet through seeing her. 

I will have revenge, for all that Love 
has made me suffer, all I must still suffer
until she heals the heart she ravaged,
she, alien to pity, but still enticing,
unless Anger and Pride opposing Humility
close off and deny the way 
that leads to her.

And the day and the hour that opened my eyes
to the lovely dark and the lovely white
that emptied me of that where Love now lives,
were the new roots of the life that troubles me,
as she does in whom our age is reflected, 
for he is made of lead or stone
whom she does not make afraid.


So no tear of those I weep,
because of these arrow-tips
bathing my heart, that first felt them, in blood,
signifies that I un-wish what I wished,
the punishment falls in the right place:
through the eyes my soul sighs, and it's right
that they bathe my wounds.

My own thoughts struggle against me:
so Dido, weary as I am now,
turned her beloved sword against herself:
yet I do not pray for my freedom,
since all other roads to heaven are less true,
and there is no safer ship in which to aspire
to the glorious kingdom.

Benign stars that were friends 
to that fortunate womb
when that beauty came to this world!
She is a star on earth, and she keeps
her chastity as laurel stays green,
so no lightning strikes her, no shameful breeze
can ever force her.

I know that to capture her praise in verse
would be to exceed
the most worthy that set hand to writing.
What cell of memory is there in which to hold
so much virtue and so much beauty together
that shine in her eyes, the sign of all value,
the key to unlock my heart.

Lady, beneath the sun's circle, Love has
no greater treasure than you.

30. 'Giovene donna sotto un verde lauro' (Sestina form)

I saw a girl under green laurel
colder and whiter than the snow
untouched by the sun for many years:
and her speech, her lovely face, her hair
so please me that she's before my eyes,
and will be always, wherever, on sea or shore.

My thoughts at last will come to shore,
when there are no green leaves on laurel:
when I've quieted my heart, dried my eyes,
we'll see freezing fire and burning snow:
and there's not as many strands in my hair
as the years I'd wait to see that, and years.

But since time flies and they vanish, those years,
so that death comes to us, and so sure
either with dark hair or with white hair
I'll follow the shadow of that sweet laurel,
through the brightest sun and through the snow,
until the last day closes my eyes.

Such lovely eyes were never seen
in our age or in earlier years,
that melt me as sun melts the snow:
from which proceeds a tear-drenched shore
a stream that Love leads under harsh laurel,
that has branches of steel, and golden hair.

I fear I'll be altered in face and hair
before I see real pity in her eyes,
my idol sculptured from living laurel:
if I've not miscounted it's seven years
today that I've sighed from shore to shore,
night and day, in heat and snow.


Fire inside, outside white snow
alone with these thoughts, with altered hair,
I'll walk weeping along every shore
so that pity perhaps will appear in eyes
not to be born for a thousand years,
if such is the span of cultured laurel.

The laurel, topaz in sun on snow,
is exceeded by blonde hair near the eyes
that bring my years so slowly to shore.

31. 'Questa anima gentil che si diparte'

That gentle spirit that departs,
called to the other life before its time,
will join the most blessed region of the sky
when it is welcomed as it is sure to be.

If it passed between Venus, the third light, and Mars,
it would lessen the brightness of the sun,
since noble spirits would gather round her
merely to gaze at her infinite beauty.

If it passed below the fourth, the Sun
all the lesser lights would seem less lovely,
and it alone would have the fame and glory:

it could not exist in Mars' fifth sphere:
but if it flies higher, I believe truly
Jupiter will be conquered and every star.

32. 'Quanto piú m'avicino al giorno extremo'

The closer I come to that last day
that puts an end to human misery
the more swiftly and lightly I see time go by,
and my hopes of it deceive and fade.

I say in thought: 'No time is left now
to speak of love, for this hard and heavy
earthly burden has begun to melt
like fresh snow: so we'll find peace:

since with the body hope too will vanish,
that made us rave for so many years,
with laughter and tears, fear and anger:

for so we see how it often happens
that through uncertain things we advance,
and often we sigh to no real purpose.'

33. 'Già fiammeggiava l'amorosa stella'

Already Venus, the star of love, was blazing 
in the east, and that other northern constellation 
Callisto's Great Bear, that makes Juno jealous,
was wheeling round its bright and lovely rays:

the little old woman had risen to her spinning,
barefoot, dishevelled, and had raked the coals,
and that time had arrived for lovers
that calls them by custom to weep again:

when my hope that was already fading 
entered my heart, that sleep kept closed 
and grief moistened, but not by her usual way:

alas, how altered from how she used to be!
And she seemed to say: 'Why do you lose courage?
The sight of these eyes is not yet taken from you.'

34. 'Apollo, s'anchor vive il bel disio'

Apollo, if that sweet desire is still alive
that inflamed you by the river of Thessaly,
and if with the passing years you've not already
forgotten that beloved blonde hair:

defend the honoured and sacred leaves now,
where you long ago, and I lately, were caught,
through the slow frost and harsh and cruel time
that is endured while you hide your face:

and by the power of that amorous hope
that sustained you, though life was bitter,
disburden the air of this dark weather:

so we may see by a miracle together
our lady seated on the grass
lifting her arms to make herself a shade.

35. 'Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi'

Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,
I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,
and keep my eyes intent on fleeing
any place where human footsteps mark the sand.

I find no other defence to protect me
from other people's open notice,
since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,
they see from outside how I flame within.

So now I believe that mountains and river-banks
and rivers and forests know the quality
of my life, hidden from others.

Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh
that love will not always come there
speaking with me, and I with him. 

36. 'S'io credesse per morte essere scarco'

If I believed I could free myself, by dying,
from amorous thoughts that bind me to the earth,
I would already have laid these troubled limbs
and their burden in the earth myself:

but because I fear to find a passage
from tears to tears, and one war to another,
I remain in the midst, alas, of staying and crossing
on this side of the pass that is closed to me.

There has been enough time now
for the merciless bow to fire its final arrow
bathed and dyed already with others' blood:

yet Love does not take me, or that deaf one
who has painted me with his own pallor,
and still forgets to call me to him.

37. 'Si è debile il filo a cui s'attene'

The thread on which my heavy life hangs
is worn so thin,
that if no one supports it
it will soon have arrived at its end:
for after I had suffered the cruel parting
from my sweet good
only one hope
remained that gave reason for living,
saying: 'Since you are deprived
of the beloved sight,
endure, sad spirit:
Who knows if better times will not return
and more joyful days,
and the good you have lost be regained?
This hope sustained me for a time:
but now it fails I spend too much time on it.

Time passes and the hours are so quick
to complete their journey,
that I have no space
even to think how I race towards death.
A ray of sunlight has hardly appeared
in the east before you see it strike a high peak
on the opposite horizon,
by a long curving path.
Life is so short,
the bodies of mortal men
so burdensome and weak,
that when I recall how I am separated
from that lovely face,
unable to move the wings of my desire,
my usual solace is of little help,
and how long can I live in such a state.


All places sadden me where I do not see
those beautiful bright eyes
which carried off the keys
of my thoughts, sweet while it pleased God:
and all to make my harsh exile harder,
if I sleep or walk or sit,
I long for nothing more,
and nothing I see after them can please me.
How many mountains and waters,
how many seas and rivers,
hide me from those two eyes,
that almost made a clear sky at noon
from my shadows,
only for memory to consume me more,
and to show how joyous my life was before
while my present is harsh and troubled.
 
Ah, if speaking of it so rekindles
that ardent desire
that was born on the day
when I left the better part of me behind,
and if Love fades away with long neglect
why am I drawn to the bait
that makes my sorrow grow?
And why not rather be turned to silent stone?
Surely crystal or glass
never showed colour
hidden within more clearly
than my desolate soul reveals
my thoughts
and the savage sweetness in my heart
through eyes that always wish to weep 
day and night so she might give it rest.


How human wit often turns to seek out
new pleasures, and loves
whatever is new
gathering a greater crowd of sighs!
And I am one whom weeping delights:
and as I bend my wits 
to fill my eyes with tears,
so my heart fills with grief:
and since it induces passion
to speak of her lovely eyes
and nothing touches me 
or makes me feel so deeply,
I often rush to return 
to that which fills me with greater pain,
and with my heart both my eyes are punished 
that led me along the road of Love.

That golden hair that might make the sun
move far away in envy,
and that lovely serene gaze,
where Love's rays burn so,
that makes me fade before my time,
and the deft speech
rare in this world, alone,
that has already granted me courtesy,
are taken from me: and I could pardon
any other offence more easily
than lose that greeting
like a kind angel's welcome
that lifted my heart to virtue
blazing with one sole desire:
so that I never expect to hear a thing now
that will stir me to anything but deep sighs.


And so I may weep with more delight
her slender white hands
and her gentle arms
and her gestures sweetly noble
and her sweet disdain proudly humble
and her lovely young heart,
a tower of noble feeling,
are hidden from me by wild mountainous places:
and I do not truly hope
to see her before I die:
since hope rises from time
to time, but then does not stand firm,
and recedes, confirming
that I will never see her, whom the heavens honour,
where Honesty and Courtesy reside,
and where I pray my residence might be.

Song, if you see my lady
in that sweet place,
I know well you think
she'll stretch out her lovely hand to you
that I am far away from.
Do not touch it: but do reverence at her feet
and say I shall be there as swiftly as I can,
as naked spirit, or man of flesh and bone.


38. 'Orso, e´ non furon mai fiumi né stagni,'

Orso, there never was lake or river
or sea, into which all rivers flow,
or shadow of wall, or branch, or hill,
or cloud hiding the sky, bathing the world,

or other obstacle, to make me grieve,
however much it masked human sight,
as the veil that shadows two lovely eyes,
and says by it: 'Now pine away and weep.'

And then the lowering of them from humility
or pride, so all my joy is dimmed,
is the reason I die before my time.

And I grieve for a white hand too
often lifted shrewdly to do me harm,
and rising like a rock before my eyes.

Note: Addressed to Orso dell'Anguillara.

39. 'Io temo sí de' begli occhi l'assalto'

I'm so afraid of those lovely eyes' assault
in which Love and my death exist,
I run from them like a child from the rod,
and it's long since I first took that step.

There is no difficult or high place
from now on, I would not reach
to avoid what scatters my senses
leaving me as if I were cold enamel.

So if I turned towards you only lately
not to be nearer what consumes me,
perhaps I am not without a true excuse.

More, to return to the place I fled from,
and free my heart from such deep fear,
is no light testimony to my loyalty.

Note: Assumed to be written to a friend in Provence.

40. 'S'Amore o Morte non dà qualche stroppio'

If Love or Death do not bring some flaw
to this new cloth that I now weave,
and if I can keep free of clinging lime,
while I twine the one truth with the other,

perhaps I will create a double work  
in modern style but with ancient content,
so that, I'm fearful of saying it too boldly,
you'll hear the noise even as far as Rome.

But since, to finish the labour, I lack
some of those sacred threads revealed
in those works of my beloved teacher,

why do you close your hand to me,
against your custom? I beg you to open it,
and you'll see something beautiful appear.

Note: Augustine is the beloved teacher. Petrarch
is presumably seeking copies of his works.

41. 'Quando dal proprio sito si remove'

When that tree that Apollo once loved
in its human form moves from its proper place,
Vulcan sighs and sweats at his work,
to refresh Jupiter's sharp lightning-bolts:

who sends now thunder, now snow, or rain,
without regard to July or January:
the earth weeps, and the sun stays far away,
because he sees his dear friend vanish.

Then those fierce planets Saturn and Mars
blaze out again, and armed Orion
shatters the poor sailor's tiller and shrouds:

and stormy Aeolus makes Neptune, 
and Juno, and us, feel the departure 
of that lovely face the angels wait for.

Notes: Vulcan the god's smith, Aeolus 
the god of winds, and the sky, Neptune 
of the sea, Juno the goddess of earth.
Mars signifies war and Saturn grief,
while Orion is the constellation of storms.

42. 'Ma poi che 'l dolce riso humile et piano'

But now that her clear sweet humble smile
no longer hides the freshness of her beauty,
that Sicilian smith of ancient times
works his arms at the forge in vain,

for Jupiter lets the weapons fall from his hand,
tempered though they were in Etna's fires,
and Juno his sister begins to clear the air
under Apollo's lovely gaze on every side.

A breeze blows from the western shore
that makes it safe to sail without art,
and fills the grass with flowers in every meadow.

Harmful stars vanish from the whole sky,
scattered by that beloved, lovely face,
for which I've already shed so many tears.

Note. A companion poem to 41. Vulcan
is the Sicilian smith. The original says
Mongibello rather than the better known
Mount Etna where Vulvan had his forge.

43. 'Il figliuol di Latona avea già nove'

Apollo, Latona's son, had sent his gaze
down nine times, from his high balcony
looking for one who in former times moved
his sighs in vain, and now moves another's.

So that tired of searching, not knowing where
she might be, whether near or far,
he appeared to us like one maddened by grief,
who cannot find again a much loved thing.

And positioned apart and being so sad
he did not see that face return, that if I live
will be praised in more than a thousand lines:

and suffering had even altered that face,
until the lovely eyes left off weeping:
so the sky remained in its former state.

Note: Suggests poems 41-43 concern 
a nine-day period of retreat by Laura
due to mourning or perhaps illness. 

44. 'Que'che 'n Tesaglia ebbe le man' sí pronte

Caesar who was all too ready, in Thessaly,
to paint the ground crimson in civil war,
wept for Pompey his dead son-in-law,
recognising his familiar features:

and David the shepherd-boy who shattered
Goliath's skull, wept for Absalom his rebellious son,
and even drowned his eyes for the dead Saul,
so much so he cursed Gilboa's cruel mountain. 

But you whom pity never caused to pale,
who always have your veil to protect you
against the bow Love draws in vain,

see me tormented by a thousand deaths:
and yet have never let one tear fall
from your sweet eyes, only disdain and anger.

Notes: Caesar defeated Pompey at Pharsalia: 
later, after defeat in Egypt, Pompey's severed head
was sent to Caesar. See 2 Samuel i and xviii 
for David, Goliath and Saul.

45. 'Il mio adversaria in cui veder solete'

Mirror, my enemy, in which you are allowed
to see your eyes that Love and Heaven honour,
enamours you of beauties not its own,
sweet and delightful in more than mortal ways.

Through its promptings, Lady, I have been
driven from my sweet resting-place:
wretched exile, though I could not rightly stay
where you alone can have existence.

But if I had been fixed there with firm rivets,
that mirror would not have made you proud
and harsh, pleasing to yourself, to my harm.

Surely you can remember Narcissus:
that course and this runs to the same end,
though the grass is not worthy of such a flower.

Note: For Narcissus see Ovid's Metamorphoses,
falling in love with his own reflection he was
changed into the narcissus flower.

46. 'L'oro et le perle e i fior' vermigli e i bianchi,'

The gold and pearls and flowers, crimson and white,
that winter should have made dry and withered,
are cruel and venomous thorns to me,
that sting me fiercely in the chest and side.

So my life will be tearful and short,
since great grief rarely withers or grows old:
but I blame those fatal mirrors more,
that you have wearied gazing at yourself.

They imposed their silence on my lord,
who prayed to you for me, so he was mute,
seeing you sate your passion with yourself: 

they were created beneath the watery 
depths, and tinted with eternal oblivion,
where the cause of my death was born.

47. 'Io sentia dentr'al cor già venir meno'

I felt those spirits weakening in my heart
that receive their life from you:
and since every earthly creature 
naturally protects itself from death,

loosed my desire, that now I rein in hard,
and sent it by a road that is almost lost:
so that it draws me there, day and night,
and I lead it, against its will, another way.

And it brought me, slowly and shamefully,
to look on those delightful eyes, that I
guard myself from so they may not grow cold.

Now I'll live a while, since a mere glance of yours
has so much power to bring me to life:
then I'll die, if I don't follow my desire.

48. 'Se mai foco per foco non si spense'

Since fire is never quenched with fire,
nor rivers ever dried by the rain,
but a thing's always increased by its like,
and sometimes its opposite makes it blaze higher,

Love, who have power over my thoughts,
and nourish one soul in two bodies,
why do you there obey a different rule,
making desire weaken by desire?

Perhaps like the great falls along the Nile
that deafen those around with their vast roar,
or the sun that dazzles those who gaze too hard,

so desire that is not in tune with itself,
unrestrained in its object, comes to grief,
and by spurring hard its speed is slowed.

49. 'Perch'io t'abbia guardato di menzogna'

Though I've protected you from lying,
and have allowed you honourable speech,
ungrateful tongue you've not returned the honour,
but caused me anger and embarrassment:

and the more I'm in need of your help
to ask for mercy, the more frozen you are
and the words you make sound imperfect
like those made by a man in dreams.

And you, sad tears, you stay with me
all night, when I wish to be alone,
then vanish before the face of my peace:

And you, sighs, so ready to bring me anguish
and grief, issue slowly and brokenly then,
so that only my look's not silent about my heart.



50. 'Ne la stagionche 'l ciel rapido inchina'

At the moment when the swift sky turns
towards the west, and our day flies
to people beyond, perhaps, who see it there,
the weary old woman on a pilgrimage
finding herself alone in a far country,
redoubles her steps, and hurries more and more:
and then so alone
at the end of her day
is sometimes consoled
with brief repose that lets her forget
the troubles and the evils of the way.
But, alas, every grief the day brings me,
grows when the eternal light
begins to depart from us.

While the sun turns his fiery wheel
to give space to the night, 
while darker shadows fall from the highest peaks,
the greedy peasant gathers his tools,
and with the speech and music of the mountains,
frees every heaviness from his heart:
and then sets out the meal
of an impoverished life,
like those acorns in the Golden Age
that all the world rejects but honours.
But let whoever will be happy hour on hour
since I have never yet had rest an hour,
not to speak of happiness,
despite the wheeling of the sky and stars.


When the shepherd sees the rays
of the great star sink to the nest where they hide,
darkening the eastern landscape,
he rises to his feet, and with his usual staff,
leaving the grass, the fountains and the beeches,
gently moves his flock:
far from other men
in cave or hut,
he scatters green leaves,
and without thought lies down to sleep.
Ah cruel Love, instead you drive me on
to follow the sound, the path and the traces,
of a wild creature that consumes me,
one I cannot catch, that hides and flees.

And the sailors in some enclosed bay
as the sun vanishes, throw their limbs
on the hard boards, still in their soiled clothes.
But though he dives into the deep waves,
and leaves Spain behind his back,
Granada, and Morocco and the Pillars,
and men and women,
earth and its creatures,
are free of their ills,
I never put an end to my lasting trouble:
and grieve that every day adds to my harm,
already my passion has been growing
for nearly ten long years,
and I can't imagine who could free me.


And, since speaking comforts me a little,
I see the oxen turn homewards in the evening,
from the fields and the furrows they have ploughed:
why has my sighing not been taken from me
at any time? Why not my heavy yoke?
Why are my eyes wet day and night?
Wretch that I am, what did I wish
when I first gazed
at that lovely face so fixedly
when I carved her image in that part
from which no force or art
can ever move it, till I am given as prey
to him who scatters all!
Nor even then can I say anything about him.

Song, if being with me
from dawn to evening
has made you of my company,
you'll not wish to show yourself everywhere:
and you'll care so little for other's praise,
it's enough for you to take thought, from hill to hill,
of how I'm scorched by fire
from this living stone, on which I lean.

51. 'Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi mei'

If the light had neared my eyes a little
that dazzles me even when far away,
then, as she changed her form in Thessaly,
I would have changed my form completely.

And since I could not be transformed to be 
more hers than I am already (not that it gains me pity),
I think my aspect today would be
carved from whatever stone is hardest,

from diamond, or from a fine marble, white
perhaps through fear, or from rock-crystal,
praised by the greedy and foolish crowd:

and be free of this savage and heavy yoke,
because of which I even envy that old man,
Atlas, whose shoulders shadow Morocco. 


52. 'Non al suo amante piú Dïana piacque,'

Diana was not more pleasing to her lover,
when by chance he saw her all naked
in the midst of icy waters,

than, to me, the fresh mountain shepherdess,
set there to wash a graceful veil,
that ties her vagrant blonde hair from the breeze,

so that she makes me, now that the heavens burn,
tremble, wholly, with the chill of love.

53. 'Spirto gentil, che quelle membra reggi'

Gentle spirit, that rules those members
in which a pilgrim lives,
a brave lord, shrewd and wise,
now you have taken up the ivory sceptre
with which you punish Rome and her wrongdoers,
and recall her to her ancient ways,
I speak to you, because I see no other ray
of virtue that is quenched from the world,
nor do I find men ashamed of doing wrong.
I don't know what Italy expects or hopes for,
she seems not to feel her trouble,
old, lazy, slow,
will she sleep forever, no one to wake her?
I should grasp her by the hair with my hand.

I've no hope she'll ever move her head
in lazy slumber whatever noise men make,
so heavily is she oppressed and by such a sleep:
not without the destiny in your right hand,
that can shake her fiercely and waken her,
now the guide of our Rome.
Set your hand to her venerable locks
and scattered tresses with firmness,
so that this sluggard might escape the mire.
I who weep for her torment day and night,
place the greater part of my hopes in you:
for if the people of Mars
ever come to lift their eyes to true honour,
I think that grace will touch them in your days.


Those ancient walls the world still fears and loves
and trembles at, whenever it recalls
past times and looks around,
and those tombs that enclose the dust
of those who will never lack fame
until the universe itself first dissolves,
and all is involved in one great ruin,
trust in you to heal all their ills.
O famous Scipios, o loyal Brutus,
how pleased you must be, if the rumour has yet 
reached you there, of this well-judged appointment!
I think indeed Fabricius
will be delighted to hear the news!
And will say: 'My Rome will once more be beautiful!'

And if Heaven cares for anything down here,
the souls, that up there are citizens,
and have abandoned their bodies to earth,
pray you to put an end to civil hatred,
that means the people have no real safety:
so the way to their temples that once
were so frequented is blocked, and now
they have almost become thieves' dens in this strife,
so that their doors are only closed against virtue,
and amongst the altars and the naked statues
they commit every savage act.
Ah what alien deeds!
And no assault begun without a peal of bells
that were hung on high in thanks to God.


Weeping women, the defenceless children
of tender years, and the wearied old
who hate themselves and their burdened life,
and the black friars, the grey and the white,
with a crowd of others troubled and infirm,
cry: 'O Lord, help us, help us.'
And the poor citizens dismayed
show you their wounds, thousand on thousands,
that Hannibal, no less, would pity them.
And if you gaze at the mansion of God
that is all ablaze today, if you stamped out
a few sparks, the will would become calm,
that shows itself so inflamed,
then your work would be praised to the skies.

Bears, wolves, lions, eagles and serpents
commit atrocities against a great 
marble column, and harm themselves by it.
Because this gentle lady grieves at it,
she calls to you that you may root out
those evil plants that will never flower.
For more than a thousand years now
she has lacked those gracious spirits
who had placed her where she was.
Ah, you new people, proud by any measure,
lacking in reverence for such and so great a mother!
You, be husband and father:
all help is looked for from your hands,
for the Holy Father attends to other things.


It rarely happens that injurious fortune
is not opposed to the highest enterprises,
when hostile fate is in tune with ill.
But now clearing the path you take,
she makes me pardon many other offences,
being out of sorts with herself:
so that in all the history of the world
the way was never so open to a mortal man
to achieve, as you can, immortal fame,
by helping a nobler monarchy, if I 
am not mistaken, rise to its feet.
What glory will be yours, to hear: 
'Others helped her when she was young and strong:
this one saved her from death in her old age.'

On the Tarpeian Rock, my song, you'll see
a knight, whom all Italy honours,
thinking of others more than of himself.
Say to him: 'One who has not seen you close to,
and only loves you from your human fame,
tells you that all of Rome
with eyes wet and bathed with sorrow,
begs mercy of you from all her seven hills.'

Notes: The unknown addressee has received the senator's
ivory sceptre. Petrarch references the history of the Roman
Republic. Brutus is one of the first consuls not Caesar's 
assassin. The black, grey and white friars are the Dominicans,
Franciscans and Carmelites. The column is a reference
to the Colonna family. Petrarch dates Rome's fall from
Constantine's transfer of the Empire to Byzantium 
(Constantinople) in AD330. The Holy Father is at Avignon
in exile. The Tarpeian Rock is on the Capitoline Hill of Rome.

54. 'Perch'al viso d'Amor portava insegna,'

Because she bore Love's emblems in her aspect,
a pilgrim, she vainly moved my heart,
so that all others seemed less worthy of honour.

And I followed her over the green grass:
hearing a loud voice from the distance:
'Ah, how many steps you lose in this wood!' 

I crouched in the shade of a lovely beech,
pensively: and looking all around me,
I saw many dangers on my road:

and turned back, almost at the point of noon.

55. 'Quel foco ch'i' pensai che fosse spento'

That fire that I thought had been quenched
by chill time and declining years,
rekindles flame and suffering in the soul.

They were not wholly spent, as I can see,
those last embers, but covered over,
and I fear this second error will be worse.
With all the thousands of tears I weep
sorrow flowing from my heart distils 
from my eyes: sparks and tinder are with me:
it is not as it was, but seems to flare higher.

What fire would not by now be spent and dead
on which these sad eyes were always turned?
Love, though I have been so slow to see it,
stretches me between two contraries:
and spreads his nets in such diverse ways,
that when I've most hope my heart will escape,
I can no longer retreat from her lovely face.

56. 'Se col cieco desir che 'l cor distrugge'

If, through blind desire that destroys the heart,
I do not deceive myself counting the hours,
now, while I speak these words, the time nears
that was promised to pity and myself.

What shade is so cruel as to blight the crop
which was so near to a lovely harvest?
And what wild beast is roaring in my fold?
What wall is set between the hand and grain?

Ah, I do not know: but I see only too well
that in joyous hope love led me on
only to make my life more sorrowful.

And now I remember words that I have read:
before the day of our final parting
we should not call any man blessed.

Note: See Ovid: Metamorphoses iii. 136-7
for one possible source of the last lines.

57. 'Mie venture al venir son tarde et pigre'

My luck is always late and slow to reach me,
hope is uncertain, desire grows and increases,
so that I grieve with loss or anticipation,
and it is quicker than a tigress to depart.

Alas, snow will be black and hot,
the sea without waves, fish on the hills,
and the sun set where Tigris and Euphrates
issue together from their source,

before I can find peace in my mind,
or Love or my lady alter their ways,
who have joined in wrong against me.

And any sweetness follows such bitterness
that through disdain the taste is lost:
I will never know what's better from them.



58. 'La guancia che fu già piangendo stancha'

My dear lord, rest that cheek of yours 
already tired with weeping, on my first gift,
be more careful of yourself with that cruel one
who makes pallid all those who follow him.

With the second, block with your left hand
the path that his messengers pass along,
appear the same in August as January,
so as not to lose your time on the long road.

And drink a herbal mixture from the third,
to purge away all thought that pains the heart,
sweet at the last, though the start is bitter.

Keep me where all your pleasures are stored,
so I will not fear the Stygian ferryman,
if the request I make does not seem proud.

Note: Sent to Agapito Colonna, Bishop of Luni
with the gifts presumably of a pillow, book, and cup.
The poem has indeed evaded Charon so far.

59. 'Perché quel che mi trasse ad amar prima,'

Though another's fault takes me away
from what drew me to my first bitterness,
I am not moved from my fixed desire.

Love hid the noose he caught me with
among that golden hair:
and cold ice came from those lovely eyes
that passed into my heart,
with the power of a sudden splendour,
that, merely remembering it, all other wishes
are driven from my soul.

Alas, since then, the sweet sight of that blonde hair
has been taken from me:
and the vanishing of those two true and lovely eyes
has saddened me with their flight:
but since dying well brings us honour,
despite grief or death,
I do not wish Love to loose me from this knot.

60. 'L'arbor gentil che forte amai molt'anni'

The gentle tree that I've loved many years,
while it's lovely branches did not disdain me
made my feeble intellect flower beneath
its shade, and all my anxieties increase.

When, while I suspected no such deceit,
from sweetness it turned itself to pitiless wood,
I turned all my thoughts to one purpose,
to speak endlessly of that sad harm.

What can he say who sighs because of love,
if my new rhymes have given him fresh hope,
hope that now, because of her, he loses?

Let no poet gather it now, nor Jupiter
favour it, and let Apollo's sun blaze in anger,
so that it withers all those green leaves.


61. 'Benedetto sia 'l giorno, et 'l mese, et l'anno,'

Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year,
and the season, and the time, and the hour, and the moment,
and the beautiful country, and the place where I was joined
to the two beautiful eyes that have bound me:

and blessed be the first sweet suffering
that I felt in being conjoined with Love,
and the bow, and the shafts with which I was pierced,
and the wounds that run to the depths of my heart.

Blessed be all those verses I scattered
calling out the name of my lady,
and the sighs, and the tears, and the passion:

and blessed be all the sheets
where I acquire fame, and my thoughts,
that are only of her, that no one else has part of. 


62. 'Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni,'

Heavenly Father, after the lost days,
after the nights spent wandering,
with that fierce desire that burned in my heart,
gazing on limbs adorned to do me harm,

now may it please you by Your light I turn
to the greater life and the sweeter work,
so that my harsh adversary having cast
his nets in vain, may be discredited.

Now, my Lord, the eleventh year revolves
since I was bowed under that pitiless yoke,
which to those most subject to it is most fierce.

Have pity on my unworthy suffering:
lead back my wandering thoughts to a better place:
remind them how you hung, today, upon the cross.

63. 'Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore'

Turning your eyes on my strange colour
that sets people thinking of death,
pity moved you: so that, greeting me
with kindness, you have kept my heart alive.

That frail life, that still exists in me
was the clear gift of your lovely eyes,
and your voice, angelically sweet.
I recognise my being comes from them:

for like a lazy beast stirred by a stick,
they likewise woke my heavy mind.
Lady, you have both the keys of my heart

in your hand: and I am content,
ready to sail with every breeze:
everything of yours is sweet honour to me.


64. 'Se voi poteste per turbate segni'

If you, with signs of your unease,
lowering your eyes, bowing your head,
or being more ready than anyone to flee,
turning your face from honest worthy prayers,

or by some other ingenuity, seek escape
so from my heart, from which Love grafts
more branches of that first laurel, I'd agree
there was just cause for your disdain:

for a noble plant in arid soil 
is embarrassed by it, so naturally
delights in being moved somewhere else:

and though your destiny prevents you
being elsewhere, you can at least provide 
that you're not always somewhere you hate.

65. 'Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima'

Alas, how unprepared I was at first
that day when Love came to wound me,
and step by step made himself the lord
of my life, and took his place at the head.

I did not think that rasping power of his 
could ever lessen by a jot the firmness 
or the strength of my well-tempered heart:
but so it is when we overestimate the truth.

From now on all defence comes too late,
other than to prove whether Love
listens to mortal prayers much, or little.

I do not pray, since there is no purpose,
that my heart should ever burn less fiercely,
but only that she might share part of the fire.

66. 'L'aere gravato, et l'importuna nebbia' (sestina)

The heavy air, and the oppressive cloud,
compressed on all sides by the raging winds,
will quickly be converted into rain:
and already part-crystal are the rivers,
and where there was grass in the valleys
there's nothing to be seen but frost and ice.

And on my heart that grows colder than ice
my heavy thoughts form such a cloud,
as sometimes rises from these valleys,
closed off from the more kindly winds,
surrounded by the slow-moving rivers,
when there falls from heaven a gentler rain.

In a little while it passes, all that heavy rain,
and the warmth disperses snow and ice,
giving a swollen surface to the rivers:
never was the sky hidden by such dense cloud
that, meeting with the fury of the winds,
it did not fly from off the hills and valleys.

But, alas, for me there are no flowering valleys,
rather I weep in clear skies or in rain,
and in the chill and in the gentle winds:
when that day comes my lady's without ice
inside, and outside is without the usual cloud,
dry ocean will be seen, and lakes and rivers.


As long as the sea receives the rivers
and the wild creatures love the shady valleys,
her lovely eyes will be concealed by cloud
that makes in mine one continuous rain,
and in her heart the unyielding ice
which draws from mine such sighing winds.

I should be able to excuse the winds,
for love of that one, that between two rivers
confined me among sweet green and lovely ice,
so that I pictured through a thousand valleys
that shade where I was, so that no heat or rain
troubled me there nor any breaking cloud.

But never did cloud fly before the winds
as on that day, nor rivers ever with rain,
nor ice when the sun unlocks the valleys.

67. 'Del mar Tirreno a la sinistra riva,'

On the left shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea,
where the waves weep, broken by the wind,
I suddenly glimpsed the noble leaves
that force me to write so many pages.

Love that was seething in my spirit
through remembering that golden hair,
pushed me so I fell, as if no longer living,
into a stream hidden in the grass.

Alone though I was among the woods and hills,
shame was with me, for the gentle heart
is enough in itself, and needs no other spur.

I'm at least glad to have changed my tale
from eyes to feet, since if these are made wet
the others are dried by a more courteous April.

68. 'L'aspetto sacro de la terra vostra'

The sacred aspect of your native place,
makes me sorrow for the evil that is past,
crying: 'Arise, you wretch, what is it you do?':
and shows me the way to climb to Heaven.

But with this thought another one contends
and says to me: 'Why do you run away?
If you recall, the time now is passing
in which you might turn and see our lady.'

I understand what it says, and I turn
to ice inside, like a man who hears
news which suddenly overwhelms him.

The first thought returns, the other flies:
which will win, who knows: but they've fought
till now, and more than one single time.

69. 'Ben sapeva io che natural consiglio'

Love, I well know our natural defences
are never of any value against you,
you've so many snares, so many false promises, 
so many grasps of your fierce claws.

But recently, what was marvellous to me
(I tell it, as someone unaware of it,
and who noted it, on those salt waters
between Elba and Giglio and the Tuscan shore),

I fled your hand, and on the passage,
driven by the wind and sky and waves,
I went unknown and as a stranger: when

behold your ministers, from who knows where,
to show me how wrong is he who hides
from destiny, and how wrong he who fights it.

70. 'Lasso me, ch'i' no so in qual parte pieghi'

Ah me, I don't know where to seek for hope
that has been false so many times before:
if there is no one who will listen with pity,
why should I send the same prayers to heaven?
But if it should chance that I'm not prevented 
from ending these sad songs
before my ending,
let it not weigh heavy with my lord if I
ask to sing freely among the grass and flowers:
'Drez et rayson es qu'ieu ciant e 'm demori,
It's right and just I should sing and be happy'.

For it is right that I should sing sometimes,
since I have sighed so very long
that it's never soon enough to begin
to counter so much grief with smiles.
And if I could only grant those sacred eyes
some delight
through sweet speech of mine
Oh I'd be blessed beyond all other lovers!
More so if I could say without a lie:
'Donna mi priegha, per ch'io volgio dire,
My lady asks me, so I desire to speak.'

Wandering thoughts, that step by step
have led me to such high poetry,
see how my lady's heart is cold enamel,
so hardened that I cannot pass inside.
She does not deign to gaze so low
as to care for our words
against heaven's wishes,
so that I'm already tired of the struggle:
and as my heart becomes hard and rough,
'così nel mio parlar voglio esser aspro,
so I would wish my speech to be rougher.'


What do I say? Where am I? Do I deceive myself
because my exalted passion runs so high?
Though I traverse the sky from sphere to sphere
there is no planet that forces me to grieve.
If a mortal veil dims my sight
what fault is it of the stars,
or anything of beauty?
With me is what harms me day and night,
what brings me pain from its pleasure,
'la dolce vista e 'l bel guardo soave,
the sweet sight and the lovely gentle look.'

Everything with which the world's adorned
issued pure from the eternal Maker's hand:
but I who cannot discern how to enter in,
am dazzled by beauty shown me all around:
and whenever I turn to the real splendour,
my eyesight cannot see true,
as if it has been weakened,
through its own fault, not by the day
when I first turned towards that beauty
'nel dolce tempo de la prima etade,
in the sweet season of my early youth.'

Notes. The last lines of the verses are quotations
in chronological order from the poetic tradition
leading to Petrarch, namely from a poem attributed
to Arnaut Daniel, from Guido Cavalcanti, 
from Dante, Cino da Pistoia, and from Petrarch 23.

71. 'Perchè la vita è breve'

Because this life is short,
and thought trembles at the high enterprise,
I place little of my trust in either:
but hope that the sorrow 
I cry silently might be accepted
where I long for, and where it ought to be.
Lovely eyes where Love has made his nest,
I direct my weak verse towards you,
of itself slow, but spurred by great delight:
and he who speaks of you
takes a noble subject as his theme,
which lifts him on loving wings
far from all base thought.
Now on these wings I fly to speak 
of what I've long carried hidden in my heart.

Not that I'm blind 
as to how my praise might harm you:
but my great passion cannot be opposed,
that which was born in me
when I saw that which is beyond all thought
beyond what others have spoken, or myself.
This cause of my sweet bitter state
none can understand as well as you.
When I melt like snow in the hot sun,
your gentle disdain
is perhaps because my unworthiness offends.
Oh, if that fear
did not quench the flame where I burn,
how blessed I'd be! For in your presence
it's sweeter to die than live without you.


While I am not consumed
so frail an object in so fierce a fire,
it's not true worth that prevents my ruin
but a little touch of fear,
that chills the errant blood in my veins,
restoring the heart so that it burns longer.
O hills, O Valleys, O rivers, O woods, O fields,
O witnesses to my hard life,
how many times have you heard me call for death! 
Ah wretched fate
staying destroys me, and fleeing is no help.
But if a greater fear
did not restrain me, a short swift way
would bring this harsh bitter pain to an end:
and the blame would be hers who does not care.

Sadness why do you lead me
out of my path, to say what I do not wish.
Allow me to go where it pleases me to go.
I don't complain of you
eyes, bright beyond what is mortal,
nor of him who tied me in this knot.
You see what colours Love often likes to paint
in the midst of my features,
and can imagine what he does inside,
where he stands over me night and day
with the power he gathered from you,
blessed and happy lights,
except that you cannot turn to see yourselves:
though as often as you turn again to me,
you see what you are in another.


If you could only see
the divine, unbelievable beauty
that I speak of, as those who gaze can,
immeasurable happiness
would fill your heart: perhaps its natural power
is kept remote from you to spare you.
Blessed is the soul that sighs for you
heavenly lights, so that I give thanks for life
that otherwise is worthless!
Alas, why do you so rarely
grant me what does not sate me?
Why do you not more often
consider how Love wastes me?
And why do you immediately rob me
of the good that now and then my spirit feels?

I say from time to time
through your pity, I feel
a strange new sweetness in my soul,
that clears my dead weight
of harmful thoughts, so that
of a thousand only one is left:
that is alone enough to live in joy.
And if this good could stay a while
no state would be equal to mine:
though such honour maybe
would make others envious, and me proud.
Alas, that must be why
sorrow attacks laughter in the end,
and why I interrupt that burning rapture
to return to myself, and think of myself again.


The loving thought
that lives within, is revealed to me in you,
such that it draws away all other joy:
then words and deeds
arise in me so that I hope I might
be made immortal, though the flesh dies.
Anguish and pain flee at your appearance,
and meet again in me when you depart.
But since my loving memory
prevents them entering
they do not sink beyond the surface:
so that if good fruit at times
is born of me, the seed's first sown by you:
I'm an almost sterile soil in myself,
but tilled by you, so the praise is all yours.

Song, you do not release me, but stir me
to speak of what tempts me from myself:
therefore be certain not to exist alone.

72. 'Gentil mia donna, i' veggio'

My gentle lady, I see
a sweet light that streams from your eyes
that shows me the way that leads to Heaven:
and as it is accustomed to,
in there, where I sit alone with Love,
the heart is shining almost visibly. 
This is the sight that leads me to do good,
and drives me towards a glorious end,
only by this distinguished from the crowd:
no human tongue could ever
say what those two divine lights
make me feel,
and when winter scatters frost around,
and when after it the year renews
that is the time of my first troubling.

I think: if there are other works
as fine above, where the eternal Mover
of the stars leaned down from to reveal 
his labours to the earth,
open the prison where I am confined,
that shuts from me the road to such life.
Then I turn again to my habitual war,
grateful to Nature and the day I was born
for reserving so much good for me,
and she who exalted my heart
with such hopes: for till then I lay
there, a harmful burden to myself,
but from that day was pleasing to myself,
filling with sweet and noble thought
that heart to which lovely eyes hold the key.


There is no joyous state
that Love or fickle Fortune ever granted
to those they loved most in the world,
that I would not exchange
for those eyes' glance, from which there comes
my peace, as a whole tree comes from its root.
Wandering sparks of my life, 
angelic, blessed, from which delight takes fire,
that consume me and sweetly destroy me:
as every other light
must flee and vanish before your splendour,
so with my heart,
when such great sweetness descends within,
all other things, all thought must go,
and only Love remains there with you.


Whatever sweetness was ever found
in the hearts of venturesome lovers, gathered
all on one place, is nothing to what I feel,
whenever you turn
the black and white of those lovely eyes,
in which Love so delights, sweetly towards me:
and I believe that from my infant cradle
this was the remedy Heaven sent
for my imperfections, and adverse Fortune.
That veil does me wrong
and that hand which so often comes
between those eyes and my great delight,
so that day and night I pour out 
my deep passion to ease my heart,
that takes the form of your varying aspect.



Because I see, and am sad,
that my natural gifts help me little
and make me unworthy of a kindly glance,
I make myself such
as befits my exalted hope,
and the noble fire in which I burn.
If, despising what the world desires,
I can make myself by careful study
swift to good and slow to its contrary,
perhaps benign judgement
will one day bring me fame.
Surely the end of my weeping,
my grieving heart does not hope for from elsewhere,
will come at last from that sweet tremor of lovely eyes
the final hope of courteous lovers.

Song, one sister went a little before you,
and I sense another appearing to me
where I live: so I'll lay out more paper.

73. 'Poi che per mio destino'

Since through destiny
the burning passion that has forced me to sigh
for so long now forces me to speak,
Love, you who create my longing,
be my guide, and show me the road,
and let my verse match my desire:
but not so that the heart may be out of tune
through overwhelming sweetness, as I fear,
because of what I feel where none can see,
since speaking strikes and inflames me:
nor do I find this great fire in my mind lessen,
as it sometimes would, 
by use of intellect, at which I tremble and fear,
rather I'm consumed by the sound of words,
as a snow man is in the sun.

At the start I thought 
to find some brief repose and a truce
by speaking of my ardent desire.
This hope, setting me on fire
to talk of what I felt,
abandoned me in time, and vanished.
And yet I must follow the high theme
continuing the loving notes,
so powerful the wish that drives me on:
and reason is dead
that held the reins, so nothing can oppose this.
Show me, Love, how to speak
in such a way at least that if it reach
the ears of my sweet enemy,
it might make her the friend of pity, if not of myself.


I say that in those ages
when spirits were on fire with true honour,
some men's efforts turned
to diverse countries,
crossing hills and waves, and searching
for things of honour, and culled its finest flower, 
but now that God, and Love, and Nature
wish to set every gentle virtue
in those bright eyes, through which I live in joy,
I have no need to cross
this river or that, or change countries.
I always return to them
as to the fount of all my blessings,
and when in desire I rush towards death,
the sight of them alone brings me salvation.

As the weary steersman
at night, in a rising wind, lifts his eyes
to the stars of those two Bears near the Pole,
so, in the tempest
of Love I endure, your shining eyes
are my sign, and my only comfort.
Alas, what I glimpse of them from time to time,
as Love directs me, is still more
than what is given freely to me,
and I make what little I myself 
am from their eternal rule. 
I have not moved a step 
without them, since I first saw them:
and I hold them as the crown of my being,
taking my own value to be worthless.

I could never imagine,
nor ever tell, the effect
that those sweet eyes have on my heart:
every other delight
of this life is so much less
and every other beauty falls far behind.
Tranquil peace, without any torment,
such as lies in the eternal Heavens
comes from their loving smile.
If I could see close to,
for only one day, how Love
governs them so sweetly,
while the spheres above ceased to move,
and think of nothing else nor of myself,
and not lose them by the blinking of an eye.

Alas, how I go desiring
what can never exist in any way,
and live in desire beyond all hope:
if only that knot
with which Love ties my tongue
whenever excess of light blinds mortal sight,
were untied, I would take courage
to speak words in so new a way
it would make those who heard them weep:
but that deep piercing
turns my wounded heart elsewhere,
so I grow pale,
and the blood vanishes who knows where,
and I am not what I was: and I see
that this is the blow with which love kills me.

Song, my pen is already weary
of this long sweet speech with you,
but not my thoughts of speaking to myself.

74. 'Io son già stanco di pensar sí come'

I am already wearied with thinking 
of how my thoughts are never weary of you,
and how I've not abandoned life itself yet,
to flee so heavy a weight of sighs:

and how my tongue is never lacking sound
to speak of your face and your hair,
and your lovely eyes I always talk of,
calling on your name day and night:

and how my feet are never tired and weary
of following your footsteps everywhere,
spending so many paces uselessly:

and how from it comes all the ink and paper
where I go writing of you: if that is wrong,
it is Love's fault, not a defect of my art.

75. 'I begli occi ond'i' fui percosso in guisa'

Those lovely eyes, that struck me in such guise
that only they themselves could heal the wound,
and not the power of herbs, nor magic art,
nor some lodestone from far beyond our seas,

have so closed the road to other love,
that one sweet thought alone fills my mind:
and if my tongue wishes to pursue it,
that guide, and not the tongue is to be blamed.

Those are the lovely eyes that make 
my lord's enterprise victorious
on every side, above all my heart's:

those are the lovely eyes that always live
in my heart among the blazing sparks,
so that speaking of them never makes me tired. 

76. 'Amor con sue promesse lusignando'

Love, with his beguiling promises
led me back to my ancient prison,
and gave the keys to my enemy
who still keeps me in exile from myself.

I did not realise it, alas, until it truly
happened, and now with great toil 
(who'd believe it though I speak on oath?)
I regain my liberty with sighs.

And like a truly close-kept prisoner
I carry the marks of chains on my limbs,
and eye and forehead spell what's in my heart.

When you are aware of my pallor,
you'll say: 'If I see and judge correctly,
this man was not far away from death.'

77. 'Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso'

Polyclitus gazing fixedly a thousand years
with the others who were famous in his art,
would not have seen the least part
of the beauty that has vanquished my heart.

But Simone must have been in Paradise
(from where this gentle lady came)
saw her there, and portrayed her in paint,
to give us proof here of such loveliness.

This work is truly one of those that might 
be conceived in heaven, not among us here,
where we have bodies that conceal the soul.

Grace made it: he could work on it no further
when he'd descended to our heat and cold,
where his eyes had only mortal seeing.
 
Note. Polyclitus was the Greek artist of the fifth
century BC. Simone Martini the Sienese painter
(1283-1344) was a friend of Petrarch and painted
 a (lost) portrait of Laura to which this poem refers.

78. 'Quando giunse a Simon l'alto concetto'

When Simone had matched the high concept
I had in mind with the design beneath his hand,
if he had given to this noble work
intelligence and voice with the form,

he would have eased my heart of many sighs,
that make what's dearer to others vile to me:
since she's revealed to the sight, so humble,
promising peace to me in her aspect.

But when I come to speak with her,
benignly though she seems to listen,
her response to me is still lacking. 

Pygmalion, what delight you had
from your creation, since the joy I wish
but once, you possessed a thousand times.

79. 'S'al principio risponde il fine e 'l mezzo'

If the middle and the end of these fourteen years,
in which I've sighed, should echo the beginning,
I'll still have no more help from breeze or shade,
though I felt my passion's flame increase.

Love, with whose thoughts I am ever one,
under whose yoke I must ever breathe,
so governs me I am only half a man,
turning my eyes too often towards my harm.

So I go wasting from day to day,
so secretly that only I'm aware
that it's her look that destroys my heart.

I don't know how long this final sorrow
I've brought the spirit to can stay with me,
since death is near, and life is fleeting.

80. 'Chi è fermato di menar sua vita' (Sestina)

He who is set on living out his life
on the treacherous sea and near the rocks,
saved from death by a little vessel,
cannot be far from his own end:
unless he knows how to return to port
while the tiller still directs the sails.

The gentle breeze to which my tiller and sails
were entrusted, entering beloved life
and hoping to reach a better port,
carried me then among a thousand rocks:
and the causes of my sorrowful end
were not just outside but inside the vessel.

Trapped for a long time in this blind vessel
I wandered, not lifting my eyes to the sails
carrying me, before my time, to my end:
then it pleased Him who brought me into life
to call me back, far enough from the rocks
that some way off I could see the port.

As a light at night, burning in port,
is seen on the high seas by any vessel
if it's not hidden by a storm or rocks,
so, from above my swelling sails,
I saw the emblem of that other life,
and then I sighed towards my end.


Not that I am yet certain of my end:
who wishes while day remains, to reach port
make's a long voyage in so short a life:
I'm afraid, sailing so frail a vessel,
mostly I wish the wind not to fill my sails
that wind that drove me on the rocks.

If I escape alive from dangerous rocks,
and my exile comes to a good end,
I'd be content to furl my sails,
and cast anchor in any port!
If only I don't blaze, a burning vessel:
it's so hard for me to leave the old life.

Lord of my end, and of my life,
before my vessel shatters on the rocks,
drive me to port, with storm-tossed sails.

81. 'Io son sí stanco sotto 'l fascio antico'

I'm so wearied by the ancient burden,
of these faults of mine, and my sinful ways,
that I've a deep fear of erring on the road,
and falling into my enemy's hands.

A great friend came to rescue me,
with noble and ineffable courtesy:
then flew away, far from my sight,
so that I strive to see him, but in vain.

But his voice still echoes down here:
'Come unto me: all you that labour
behold the path, if no one blocks the way.'

What grace, what love, O what destiny
will grant me the wings of a dove,
to lift from the earth, and be at rest?

Note: See Matthew xi.28 

82. 'Io non fu' d'amar voi lassato unquancho'

I have never tired of love for you,
my Lady, nor will I while I live:
but hatred of my self has reached its end,
and I am weary of continual weeping:

and I'd rather have a plain stone sepulchre,
than your name be written as author of my hurt,
on some marble: where my body's laid
without my spirit, that might still remain with you.

So, if a heart full of loving loyalty
can satisfy you, without causing harm,
favour me now by granting mercy.

If your disdain wanders some other way
seeking to be sated, and finds nothing worthy:
then Love and I will receive sufficient thanks. 

83. 'Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie'

If both my temples time it seems is greying 
little by little are still not quite white
I'll not be safe: I'll still adventure where
Love sometimes aims his bow and fires.

I no longer fear he'll maim or kill me,
or capture me, even though he traps me,
nor open up my heart because it's pierced
by his venomous and cruel arrows.

No tears can flow now from my eyes,
though they know by now which way to flow,
since sorrow's never closed the way to them.

I can be heated easily by fierce rays
and yet not set ablaze: that sharp, cruel form 
can trouble my sleep but cannot wake me.

84. 'Occhi, piangete: accompagnate il core'

Weep, eyes: accompany the heart
that is about to die for your failings.
'So we are, always weeping: we must mourn
for another's fault rather than our own.'

Yet it was through you that Love first entered,
where he still lives as though it were his home.
'We opened the way because of that hope
that came from within that heart that is to die.'

These claims are not, as they may seem, equal:
for it was you, so eager at first sight,
who did harm to yourself, and to that one. 

'Now that is what saddens us more than anything,
that perfect judgement is so rare,
and we are blamed for another's fault.'

85. 'Io amai sempre, at amo forte anchora'

I've always loved, and I love deeply still,
and love that sweet place more, from day 
to day, where I'm often forced to return
weeping, whenever Love deceives me.

And I'm deep in love with that day and hour
when all base cares were swept from round me:
and love her more, whom a lovely face adorns,
loving to do good following her example.

But who'd think to see those sweet enemies
I love so much, combined together to attack
my heart, on this side and on that?

Love, with what forces now you conquer me!
And had not my hope grown with my desire,
I'd drop down dead where I most wish to live.

86. 'Io avrò sempre in odio la fenestra'

I always hate that window from which Love
has already shot a thousand arrows at me,
though not a single one of them was mortal:
it's good for death to come while life's still happy.

And surviving in this earthly prison
causes me, infinite pain, alas:
and more because my grief will be immortal,
since the soul's not separated from the heart.

Wretch, it should realise by now, 
through long experience, that time
can never be turned back, or be restrained.

I often guide it with such words as these:
'Go, sad one, he does not go before his time
who leaves the happiest of his days behind.

87. 'Sí tosto come aven che l'arco scocchi,'

As soon as ever he has launched his arrows,
the expert archer can see from afar
which shots have gone astray, and those
he's sure will hit the target he assigned:

so you knew the arrows from your eyes,
lady, had pierced straight to my deepest part,
and I'd be forced to weep eternally
because of the wound my heart received.

And I am certain of what you said then:
'Wretched lover, where will crying lead him?
Behold the arrow by which Love hoped he'd die.'

Now, seeing how grief has bound me,
all that my enemies do with me now,
is not to kill me but increase my pain.

88. 'Poi che mia speme è lunga a venir troppo'

Because my hope takes too long to mature,
and what is left of life is so fleeting,
I wish I'd realised it in time
and fled away, faster than at a gallop:

and I do flee, though weak and wracked
from side to side, as desire twists me:
safe now, but bearing in my face
the marks received in love's struggle. 

So my advice is: 'You who are on your way,
retrace your steps: and you Love sets alight
don't wait there, among extremes of heat:

though I live, not one in a thousand escapes:
she was strong, that enemy of mine,
and yet I saw her wounded in the heart.'

89. 'Fuggendo la pregione ove Amor m'ebbe'

Fleeing the prison where Love for many years
had done with me whatever it was he wished,
it would be a long story to recount
how my newfound freedom troubled me.

My heart told me it did not know how
to live alone a day: and then that traitor Love
appeared in my path, so well disguised
he'd have deceived a wiser man than me.

So that many times, sighing within,
I said: 'Ah me, the yoke, the log, the chains,
were much sweeter than this walking free.

Alas for me, I saw my ills too late:
and how hard it is for me today to turn
away from error, where I entwined myself!

90. 'Erano i capei d'oro a l'aura sparsi'

She let her gold hair scatter in the breeze
that twined it in a thousand sweet knots,
and wavering light, beyond measure, would burn
in those beautiful eyes, which are now so dim:

and it seemed to me her face wore the colour
of pity, I do not know whether false or true:
I who had the lure of love in my breast,
what wonder if I suddenly caught fire?

Her way of moving was no mortal thing,
but of angelic form: and her speech
rang higher than a mere human voice.

A celestial spirit, a living sun
was what I saw: and if she is not such now,
the wound's not healed, although the bow is slack.

91 'La bella donna che cotanto amavi'

The lovely lady who you loved so dearly
has suddenly departed from us,
and has climbed to Heaven, I trust,
since every act of hers was sweet and gentle.

It is time to recover both the keys
of your heart, that in life she possessed,
and follow her on the swift true road:
no earthly charge should prevent you.

Now you are free from the greater burden,
the others may be easily laid down,
while you climb like a free pilgrim.

You know truly now how all creatures
run towards death, and how the soul
must be lightened for the perilous gate.

Note: Possibly addressed to Petrarch's brother
Gherardo who became a Carthusian in 1343.

92. 'Piangete, donne, et con voi pianga Amore:'

Weep, ladies, and let Love weep with you:
Weep, lovers, throughout the world,
for he is dead, who while he lived on earth,
had one intent, that of honouring you.

I only pray, for myself, that bitter grief
should not be such as stifles my tears,
and that it should allow as many sighs
as I may need, to ease my heart.

Weep, poetry, again: weep, my verses,
because our beloved master, Cino,
has just now departed from us.

Weep Pistoia, and her perverse citizens
who have lost so sweet a neighbour:
and Heaven, where he has gone, rejoice.

Note: The poet Cino da Pistoia (d.1337) is also mentioned 
in poem 287. He had been exiled from Pistoia.

93. 'Più volte Amor m'avea già detto: Scrivi'

How often Love's already said to me: 'Write,
write what you've seen in letters of gold,
of how I can make my followers turn pale,
and, in the same moment, be alive and dead.

There was a time you felt it yourself,
and were an example to the choir of love:
then other labours snatched you from my hand:
though I still touched you as you fled.

And if the lovely eyes, where I showed myself
to you, and where my sweetness stayed
after I had broken your hard heart,

remake my bow that shatters everything,
perhaps your face won't always be dry:
for I feed myself on tears, as you know.'

94. 'Quando giugne per gli occhi al cor profondo'

When through my eyes the image of my lady 
enters my heart's depths, she banishes all others,
and the power my spirit radiates
leaves my limbs, leaves them inert weights.

And often a second miracle is born
from the first: what was driven away,
fleeing from itself, arrives in a place
where it takes vengeance and delights in exile.

So a deathly pallor appears in two faces,
since the vigour that showed them as living,
is no longer where it used to be in either.

And I recalled this on the day I saw
two lovers undergo that transformation,
and look as pale as I used to look.

Note: 'in a place': in her heart.

95. 'Cosí potess'io ben chiuder in versi'

If I could imprison in my verses
the thoughts imprisoned in my heart,
there's no spirit in this world so cruel
it would not be saddened out of pity.

But you, eyes of beauty, from which I felt
the blow, not wearing a helmet or a shield,
you see me naked, inside and out,
though my grief is not poured out in tears.

Since your vision shines in me,
like a ray of sunlight through glass,
my desire is enough, without my speaking.

Alas, faith never harmed Mary or Peter,
faith, that's an enemy to me alone:
as I know none but you could understand.

96 'Io son de l'aspectar omai sí vinto,'

I'm so defeated now, in appearance,
and with the sighs of this long war,
that I've come to hate hope and desire,
and all the other nets that snare my heart.

But that sweet joyful face whose image I carry
engraved in my breast, and see wherever I gaze,
constrains me: I'm forced back against my will
into those torments that I first knew.

I erred then when the ancient path
of liberty was closed to me, removed:
what ill he follows who's led by the eye,

then free and freely runs towards his ill:
the spirit that sinned a single time
must march now to another's orders.

97. 'Ahi bella libertà, come tu m'ai,'

Ah precious freedom, how you've shown me
in parting from me, the state I was in
before that first arrow made the wound
the one from which I never can be healed!

My eyes were so enamoured of their sorrow,
that reason's rein was of no worth,
since I held all things mortal in disdain:
alas, I so accustomed them, from the start!

I don't allow myself to listen except to those
who speak of her, my death: and only go filling
the air with her name, that sounds so sweet.

Love spurs me on to no other place,
my feet know no other road, nor can the hand 
praise anyone but her in my writing.

98. 'Orso, al vostro destrier si pò ben porre' 

Orso, you can easily bridle your warhorse,
so that you can restrain his course again:
but who can tie your heart, so it can't break free,
if you love honour and loathe its contrary?

Don't sigh: no one can take your worth
from you, even if you're prevented from going:
since as public knowledge is aware,
your heart's there, and no other's before it.

Enough that it will be found in the field
on the appointed day, beneath the armour
that time, love, virtue and blood have given,

calling out: 'I'm filled with noble desire
as is my lord, who could not follow me,
and is sick and languishes, not being here.'

Note: Addressed to Orso dell' Anguillara
on his being unable to attend a tournament.

99. 'Poi che voi et io piú volte abbiam provato'

Since you and I have seen how our hope 
has, so many times, turned to disappointment,
raise your heart to a happier state,
towards that great good that never cheats us.

This earthly life's like a meadow, where
a snake hides among the grass and flowers:
and if anything is pleasing to the eye,
it leaves the spirit more entangled.

So you, who've always sought a mind 
at peace, before the final day,
follow the few, and not the common crowd.

Though you could well say to me: 'Brother
you show the way to others, from which
you've often strayed, and now more than ever.'

100. 'Quella fenestra ove l'un sol si vede'

That window where one sun is seen
when she pleases, and the other sun at noon:
window that the cold wind rattles
when days are brief, when winds are northerly:

and the stone, where on long days my lady
sits thinking, and reasoning with herself,
when many places are covered by the shadow
of her lovely self, or trodden by her foot:

and the lovely pass where Love caught me:
and the fresh season that, from year to year,
renews my former wound, on that day:

and the face, and the words that remain
fixed deep in the centre of my heart,
make my eyes dim with tears.

101. 'Lasso, ben so che dolorose prede'

Alas, I well know that he who pardons
no one, will make us his sad prey,
and that the world abandons us readily,
and keeps faith with us only a little while:

I see small thanks for all my languishing,
already the last day thunders in my heart:
and through all this Love will not release me,
asking the usual tribute from my eyes.

I know how the days, the minutes and the hours,
carry off the years: and there's no trickery,
only forces greater than any magic art.

My passion and my reason have fought 
for fourteen years: and the better one will win,
if souls down here can foresee the good.

102. 'Cesare, poi che 'l traditor d'Egitto'

When Ptolemy the Egyptian traitor
made him a gift of Pompey's honoured head,
Caesar, hiding his obvious delight,
had tears in his eyes, so it is written:

and Hannibal, seeing harsh Fortune
so hostile to his troubled empire, 
smiled among his sad and weeping people
to lessen the bitter injury.

And so it is that every mind
veils its passion with its opposite,
cloaked with a bright or a dark look:

therefore if you see me smile or sing,
I do it since that is the only way
to hide the anguish of my weeping.

Note. See poem 44 for Pompey.
Hannibal grieved for Carthage.

103. 'Vinse Hannibàl, et non seppe usar poi'

Hannibal conquered, and yet did not know
how to make use of his victorious action:
so, my dear lord, I beg you to take care
the same thing doesn't happen to you.

The she-bear raging for her cubs, 
who found the fields bitter this May,
gnaws inwardly, and whets her teeth and claws
to revenge her hurt on us. 

While she is attacked by this new grief,
don't hang up your honoured sword,
but follow where your fortune calls,

straight by the road that can grant you
honour and fame in this world,
for thousands of years after your death.

Note: Addressed to Stefano Colonna after his victory
in May 1333 over the Orsini (The 'Bears').
The Colonna were Petrach's patrons. Hannibal
was unable to fully exploit his victories in Italy
against the Romans, for example after Cannae in 216BC.

104. 'L'aspecta vertù, che 'n voi fioriva'

The visible courage, that flowered in you
when Love too started to war against you,
produces fruit now, equal to the flower,
so that my hopes come to shore.

And so my heart tells me to write something
that regard for your name might increase,
since no other method is so certain
to recreate a living person from the marble.

Do you think that Caesar or Marcellus
or Paulus or Africanus will ever live
by means of the anvil and the hammer?

My dear Pandolfo, in the end those works
are fragile, but my labour's such
as can by fame make a man immortal.

Note: Addressed to Pandolfo Malatesta,
Lord of Rimini. Petrarch names four
Roman generals. 

105. 'Mai non vo' piú cantar com'io soleva,'

Now I don't wish to sing as I used to do,
since no one understands, and I am mocked:
and one can be annoyed in a pleasant place.
Always sighing provides no relief:
snow's already falling in the Alps all round:
and day is nearly here, so I'm awake.
A sweet honest action is a fine thing:
and it pleases me to see a loving woman
walking nobly and disdainfully,
not stubbornly and proudly:
Love rules his empire without a sword.
Let the man who's lost his way turn back:
the man without a home, sleep on the grass:
the man without gold, or has lost it,
let him quench his thirst with glass.

I trusted in Saint Peter's care: no more now:
let him understand who can, I understand.
An lasting evil is a burdensome thing:
when I can I free myself, and am alone.
Phaethon fell in the River Po, and died:
and the blackbird has already crossed the river:
ah, come and see it. Now I don't wish to:
a rock amongst the waves is no joke,
or birdlime in the branches. It troubles me
when a sovereign pride
hides many virtues in a lovely lady.
There are some who answer when no one calls:
others vanish and flee those who beg them:
some there are who melt in the ice:
others who long for death day and night.


An ancient proverb: 'Love those who love you',
I know well what I'm saying: now let it go,
others must learn from their own hopes.
A humble lady makes a sweet friend suffer.
It's hard to judge a fig. It seems to me
wise not to start too grand an undertaking:
and there are decent places in every land.
Infinite hope always kills:
and I have often been in trouble.
What little's left to me
will not displease the one I give it to.
I put my trust in Him who rules the world,
and gives his followers shelter in the wood,
who with compassionate rod
will let me wander, least among his flock.

Perhaps not all who read this understand:
he often catches nothing who spreads his net:
and he who's over-subtle breaks his neck.
Let not the law be slow for those who wait.
One goes down many miles to be at rest.
Things seem great wonders, and then are scorned.
A hidden loveliness is always sweeter.
Blessed be the key that turned in my heart,
and freed my soul, and cast away
such heavy chains,
and took infinities of sighs from me!
Another sorrows where I sorrowed more,
and makes my sorrow sweet by sorrowing,
so I thank Love
I feel what was no more, and it's no less.

Shrewd and wise words in silence,
the sound that takes away all my cares,
a dark prison where there is much light:
violets at night along the shore,
wild beasts inside the walls,
sweet fear, and lovely custom,
a stream that flows in peace from two springs,
where I yearned, and gathered where I was:
Love and Jealousy have snatched my heart,
and the signs of that sweet face
that lead me on along a smoother path
towards my hope, and an end to trouble.
O my good returned, and all that follows,
now peace, now war, now truce,
but don't abandon me in mortal dress.

I laugh and weep at all my torments past,
since I have so much faith in what I hear.
I like the present, and expect much better,
and go counting the years, and mute and crying.
I nest on a sweet branch, in such a way
that I can thank and praise the great refusal
that conquered the deep feeling at last,
and carved on my soul: 'I would be heard,
and known for speaking', and has erased
(the urge is so strong
I have to speak) 'You weren't bold enough':
I write inside my heart more than on paper
for her who hurt my heart and then healed it:
for her who made me die and live,
who in a moment freezes me and warms me.

Note: Petrarch uses plain man's proverbs, and speech,
to produce a poem less easy to understand than his
usual poetic speech, and to convey the paradoxes
of his situation.

106. 'Nova angeletta sovra l'ale accorta'

A new young angel carried by her wings
descended from the sky to the green bank,
there where I passed, alone, to my destiny,

When she saw I was without companion,
or guard, she stretched a noose, woven of silk,
in the grass, with which the way was turfed.

Then I was captured: and later it did not displease me,
so sweet a light issued from her eyes.

107. Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai:'

I see no way now I can free myself:
those lovely eyes have warred with me so long,
that, alas, I fear this burden of care
will destroy my heart that knows no truce.

I want to flee: but those loving beams
that are in my mind day and night,
shine so that, in this fifteenth year,
they daze me more than on the first day:

and their image is so scattered round me
I cannot turn away so as not to see
their light, or one the same lit from it.

Such a forest grows from the one laurel
that my adversary leads me, with marvellous art,
wandering among the branches, as he wishes.

108. 'Aventurosa piu d'altro terreno,'

This soil is happier than any other,
on which I saw Love once set her feet,
turning those sacred eyes towards me,
that make the air round her at peace:

a statue made of steel would wear away
with time, before that sweet act of hers, 
that fills both my memory and my heart, 
could cease to stand before me:

however many times I might recall it
I'd still bow down to look for the print
her lovely foot made, in its courteous passage.

But if Love is not asleep in the worthy heart,
beg him, Sennuccio, when you see him,
for some little tears, or for her sigh.

Note: Senuccio del Bene d.1349, see poems 112, 113, 287.

109. 'Lasso, quante fiate Amor m'assale'

Alas, when Love makes his assaults on me,
more than a thousand times night and day,
I think of where I saw those sparks burning
that make the fire in my heart eternal.

Then I'm calm: and I'm brought to this,
that at the ringing of nones, vespers, dawn,
I find my thoughts of them so serene
that I recall and care for nothing else.

The gentle breeze from her bright face
moves with the sound of wise words
making a sweet harmony where it blows,

as if a gentle spirit from Paradise
seems always to comfort me, in that air,
so that my heart won't let me breathe elsewhere.

110. 'Persequendomi Amor al luogo usato,'

Love pursuing me to my old haunts,
I armed myself with my former thoughts.
hemmed in like a man in a battle,
who protects himself, and shuts the passes,

I turned and saw a shadow sunlight made 
at my side, and recognised, on earth, 
her who, if my judgement does not err,
is more worthy of an immortal state.

I said in my heart: 'Why be afraid?
But the thought was hardly formed inside
when the light appeared, by which I am destroyed.

Like thunder and lightning both together,
so I saw her lovely shining eyes
joined as one with her sweet greeting.

111. 'La donna che 'l mio cor nel viso porta'

The lady whose looks are always in my mind,
appeared to me where I was sitting thinking
deeply of love: and I, to do her honour,
approached her with a pale and reverent face.

As soon as she was aware of my state,
she turned towards me with such fresh colour
as would have disarmed Jove 
in all his fury, and quenched his anger. 

I gathered myself together: and she walked on,
speaking, so that I could not endure her words,
nor the sweet sparks from her eyes.

Now I find myself full of such varied
pleasures, thinking of that greeting,
I feel no grief, nor have done since then.

112. 'Sennuccio, I' vo' che sapi in qual manera'

Sennuccio, I want you to know in what manner
I am treated, and what my life is like:
I burn, and am consumed, as I used to be:
the breeze whirls me, and I am as I was.

Here I saw her all humility, and its opposite,
now harsh, now soft, now pitiless, now kind:
now clothed in nobility, now in grace,
now tame, now disdainful and wild.

Here she sang sweetly, and here she sat:
here she turned, and here took a step back:
here, with her lovely eyes, she pierced my heart:

here she spoke a word, and here she smiled:
here her face changed. Alas, both night and day,
our lord, Love, holds me, with such thoughts.

Note: Sennuccio, see poems 108, 111, 113, 287.

113. 'Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio'

Here, where I'm half myself, my Sennuccio, 
(if only I were here entire, and pleasing you),
I've come escaping the storms and winds
this cruel weather has suddenly sent us.

Here I'm safe: and want to tell you why
I'm not afraid of the lightning as before,
and why I find my burning passion
not lessened at all, much less quenched.

As soon as I came to the regions of love
and saw where the pure, sweet breeze was born
that clears the air, and banishes the thunder,

Love rekindled the fire in my soul, 
where she is mistress, extinguishing the fear:
so what would it be to gaze in her eyes? 

Note: Sennucchio is 'half' of Petrarch himself. 
Petrarch is near Laura's birthplace.

114. 'De l'empia Babilonia, ond'è fuggita'

From the impious Babylon, from which
all shame has fled, all good is banished,
the house of grief, the mother of error,
I've also fled, to prolong my life.

Here I'm alone: and as Love invites me,
culling now rhymes and verse, now herbs and flowers,
I muse to myself, and often reflect
on better times: and that alone delights me.

I don't care about the crowd, or Fortune,
or myself any longer, or base things,
nor feel the heat within me or without.

I only miss two people: and wish that one
was humbly reconciled to me in heart,
and the other as firm of foot as ever.

115. 'In mezzo di duo amanti honesta altera'

Between two noble lovers on either side,
I saw a true lady, and that lord with her
who reigns among men, and among gods:
the Sun was on one side, I on the other.

Since she found herself excluded from the sphere
of the more beautiful friend, filled with joy
she turned to my eyes, and I truly wish
she'd never be more severe to me than that.

Suddenly the jealousy that, at first sight 
of such a noble adversary, had been born
in my heart, turned to happiness.

A little cloud came to wreathe itself 
around his saddened and tearful face:
so much had his defeat displeased him.

116. 'Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza'

Full of that ineffable sweetness
that my eyes drew from her lovely face,
so I'd have closed them willingly 
that day, never to see any lesser beauty,

I left what I loved more: and have so set
my mind on contemplating her alone,
that I see no one else, and what is not her
I hate and despise, through constant habit.

Thoughtful and late, I came with Love alone
into a valley that's closed all round,
that leaves me refreshed with sighs.

No ladies there, but fountains and stones,
and I find the image of that day
my thoughts depict, wherever I gaze.

Note: The closed valley: Valchiusa in Italian,
Vaucluse in French.

117. 'Se'l sasso, ond'è piú chiusa questa valle,'

If the rock by which this valley's closed,
from which its proper name is derived,
had through natural aversion turned
its face to Rome and its back to Babel,

my sighs would have a gentler path
to follow to where their hope's alive:
now they scatter, and yet each arrives
where I commanded, and not one fails.

And once there they are received so sweetly,
as I can tell, that none of them returns:
staying in those regions with delight.

The grief is in my eyes, so that at dawn,
they are taken by such desire for that lovely land,
they grant me tears, and weariness for my feet.

Note: The valley is Vaucluse: Babel, the Papal
Court at Avignon.

118. 'Rimansi a dietro il sestodecimo anno'

My sixteenth year of sighs is left behind,
and I travel on towards my end:
and yet it seems but yesterday
the beginning of such great distress.

Bitter is sweet to me, and pain is gain,
and life is burdensome: and I pray it overcomes
ill Fortune, and I fear lest Death should close,
before then, those lovely eyes that make me speak.

Alas, I am here now, and would be elsewhere:
and wish to wish for more, and wish no more:
and because I can't do more, do what I can:

and fresh tears from old desire
show that I'm what I have always been,
no different yet despite a thousand changes.

119. 'Una donna piú bella assai che 'l sole'

A lady lovelier than the sun,
and more radiant, and of the same age,
with her famous beauty
drew me, unripe, into her company.
Then in thought, in actions, in speech,
(since she is a rare thing in this world)
in a thousand ways,
she was noble and graceful, to my mind. 
For her alone I changed from what I was,
once I had suffered her eyes to touch me:
and for love of her I set myself,
early enough, to weary labour:
such that if I reach the longed-for harbour,
I hope to live, through her,
for many years, when others think me dead.

This lady of mine led me for many years,
filled with the burning ardour of youth,
as I now understand,
only to have more certain proof of my worth,
showing me her shadow or her veil or dress
at times, but hiding her face:
and I, alas, believing
I saw enough, passed all my early life
contentedly, and I recall my joy,
now I have seen more of her within.
I say that recently
she revealed to me 
what I had not seen until that time,
so that ice sprang up in my heart,
and is there even now,
and will always be till I am in her arms.


But fear and cold did not prevent me
from feeling so much confidence in my heart
that I threw myself at her feet
to gather more sweetness from her eyes:
and she, who had already removed her veil
before me, said to me: 'Friend, now see
how beautiful I am, and ask
whatever is fitting for your years.'
'My lady,' I said, 'my love has been yours
already for many years, and now I feel
so enamoured, that in this state the power
to wish or not wish has been taken from me.'
Then she replied in a voice 
of such marvellous tones, and with that glance
that always makes me fear and hope:

'Few among the great crowd in this world,
hearing tell of my worth
have not felt at least a spark
for a brief moment in their heart:
but my adversary, whom it truly disturbs,
soon quenches it, so that all virtue dies,
and another lord reigns
who promises a more tranquil life.
But Love who first opened your mind
has told me truly of it,
so that I see your great desire
will make you worthy to end in honour:
and since you are already one of my few friends,
I see signs of a lady
who will make a happier road for your eyes.'


I wished to say: 'That is not possible':
but she said: 'Now see, and raise your eyes a little
to a more hidden place,
a lady who is only ever shown to a few.'
I had to lower my head in shame,
feeling a new and greater flame within:
and she took it in jest
saying: 'I see how it is with you, indeed.
Just as the sun with his powerful rays
makes all the other stars suddenly vanish,
so now my lovely face
seems less that a greater light outshines.
Yet you do not leave me still,
since one birth produced 
us both together, she first, and then me.'

Meanwhile the knot of shame was broken
that had tied my tongue so tightly
in that first moment of disgrace,
when she had noticed my new passion:
and I began: 'If what I hear is true,
blessed be the Father, and blessed be the day
that the world was graced by you,
and all those hours I ran to find you:
and if I've ever turned from the true way,
I regret it deeply, more than I can show:
but if I might hear more so as to become
worthy of you, I burn with that desire.'
She replied thoughtfully, and so held
her sweet gaze fixed on me
that her look entered my heart with her words:

'As it pleases our eternal Father,
each one of us was born immortal.
Wretch, what is that worth to you?
It would have been better for us if that were lacking.
We were once beloved, lovely, 
young and graceful: and now are such
that she beats her wings
to return to her former home:
and I am only a shade. Now I have spoken
all you can understand in this short time.'
Then she moved her feet,
and saying: 'Don't fear that I'll depart'
 she culled a garland of green laurel,
which with her own hand
she wound round and round my temples.

Song, if someone calls your speech obscure,
say: 'I don't care, since I soon hope
another messenger
will reveal the truth in a clearer voice.
I only come to wake others,
if he who wrote this
did not deceive me when I left him.'

Note: The two ladies are Glory and Virtue. 
The adversary is Pleasure and the new lord 
Idleness. The messenger is a further poem.

120. 'Quelle pietose rime in ch'io m'accorsi'

These kind verses in which you show me
your wit and your courteous affection,
show such concern, to my mind,
that I am forced to reach for my pen

to make you certain that I haven't felt
the last clutch of him whom I  wait for,
as all men do: though without suspecting it
I reached the entrance of his house:

then turned back, since I saw written
above it, that I had not yet reached
the limit prescribed for my life,

though I could not tell you the day or hour.
So now calm your troubled heart,
and find a worthier man to honour so.

Note: Addressed to Antonio di Ferrara who in 1343 
wrote a poem lamenting Petrarch's supposed death.

121. 'Or vedi, Amor, che giovenetta donna'

Now you see, Love, that this young lady
scorns your rule, and cares nothing for my hurt,
and feels safe between two of her enemies.

You are armed, and she in loose hair and gown
sits barefoot amongst the flowers and grass,
pitiless towards me, and proud towards you.

I'm imprisoned: but if there's mercy still,
raise your bow, and with a few arrows
take vengeance, my lord, for me and you.

122. 'Dicesette anni à già rivolto il cielo'

The heavens have revolved for seventeen years
since I first burned, and I am never quenched:
but when I think again about my state,
I feel a chill in the midst of flame.

The proverb is true, that our hair changes
before our vices, and though the senses slow
the human passions have no less intensity:
making a dark shadow to our heavy veil.

Alas, ah me, when will that day be,
when, gazing at the flight of my years,
I issue from the fire, and such long suffering?

Will the day come, ever, that only as I wish
the sweet air that adorns her lovely face 
might please these eyes, and only as is fitting? 

123 'Quel vago impallidir che 'l dolce riso'

That wandering paleness which conceals 
the sweet smile in a loving mist,
offered itself to my heart with such majesty
that it revealed the heart in the face.

Then I knew how one sees another 
in paradise, her compassionate thought 
showed in such a manner others did not know it:
but I saw it, since I see nothing else. 

Every angelic vision, every humble act
of every lady, in whom love had appeared
would be disdained beside her I speak of.

She bent her beautiful gentle gaze to earth,
and said in silence, as it seemed to me:
'Who distances my faithful friend from me?'

124. 'Amore, Fortuna et la mia mente, schiva'

Love, Fortune and my mind, shy of what
it sees, turned to what is past, afflict me so,
that I am envious now and then
of those who have reached the other shore.

Love torments my heart: Fortune removes
all solace: so that my foolish mind 
annoys itself and weeps: and so in deep pain
I often have to struggle with my life.

Nor do I hope to return to sweeter days,
but only to progress from bad to worse,
and already half my life is done.

I have seen all my hopes, not diamond,
alas, but glass, fall from my hand,
and all my thoughts shattered in two.

125. 'Se 'l pensier che mi strugge,'

If the thought that torments me,
so sharp and fierce,
could be dressed in a fitting colour,
perhaps the one who burns me and flees,
would share the heat,
and Love would wake where he sleeps:
the footprints left by my feet
on the hills and fields,
would perhaps be less lonely
my eyes would be less moist,
if she burned who remains like ice,
and leaves not an ounce in me
that it not fire and flame.

Because love weakens me
and robs me of my skill,
I speak in harsh rhymes, devoid of sweetness:
and yet the branches
do not always show their natural worth
in bark, or flower, or leaf.
Let Love, where he sits in the shade
and those lovely eyes
see what the heart conceals.
If the grief that's freed
should overflow in tears and laments,
the one hurts me the other
her, in that I have no art.


Sweet graceful verses,
I used in Love's
first assault, when I had no other weapons,
which of you will come and square
my heart of stone
so I can at least give tongue as before?
For I seem to have him within
who always depicts my lady
and speaks about her:
wishing to portray her,
is not enough for me, and it seems I only waste away.
Alas, what help there was
for my sweetness has fled.

Like a child who has trouble
moving and shaping his tongue,
who cannot speak, but who's pained by any longer 
being silent, so desire leads me
to speak, and I hope before I die
my sweet enemy will hear me.
If her only joy perhaps
is in her lovely face,
and she scorns all else,
green river-bank, you can hear,
and make my sighs echo so widely
that how your were my friend 
will always be repeated.


I know so lovely a foot
never touched the earth
as the one that has imprinted you:
so that the weary heart returns
with tormented body
to share its hidden thoughts with you.
If you had only kept
some of those lovely traces
among your turf and flowers,
so that my bitter life
in weeping, might find what calms it!
The doubtful wandering soul
must find what peace it can.

Wherever I turn my eyes
I find sweet peace,
thinking: 'Here the wandering light fell.'
Whatever herb or flower I cull
I think that it has its roots
in this earth, where she used to walk
among the fields and streams
and so find a cool seat
flowery and green.
So nothing is lost,
and greater certainty would be worse.
Blessed spirit, what are you
who do this to another?

O my poor verse, how rough you are!
I think you know it:
so stay here in this wood.
 

126. 'Chiare, fresche et dolci acque,'

Clear, sweet fresh water
where she, the only one who seemed
woman to me, rested her beautiful limbs:
gentle branch where it pleased her
(with sighs, I remember it)
to make a pillar for her lovely flank:
grass and flowers which her dress
lightly covered,
as it did the angelic breast:
serene, and sacred air,
where Love pierced my heart with eyes of beauty:
listen together
to my last sad words.

If it is my destiny
and heaven works towards this,
that Love should close these weeping eyes,
let some grace bury
my poor body amongst you,
and the soul return naked to its place.
Death would be less cruel
if I could bear this hope
to the uncertain crossing:
since the weary spirit
could never in a more gentle harbour,
or in a quieter grave,
leave behind its troubled flesh and bone.


Perhaps another time will come,
when the beautiful, wild, and gentle one 
will return to this accustomed place,
and here where she glanced at me
on that blessed day
may turn her face yearning and joyful,
to find me: and, oh pity!,
seeing me already earth
among the stones, Love will inspire her
in a manner such that she will sigh
so sweetly she will obtain mercy for me,
and have power in heaven,
drying her eyes with her lovely veil.

A rain of flowers descended
(sweet in the memory)
from the beautiful branches into her lap,
and she sat there
humble amongst such glory,
covered now by the loving shower.
A flower fell on her hem, 
one in her braided blonde hair,
that was seen on that day to be
like chased gold and pearl:
one rested on the ground, and one in the water,
and one, in wandering vagary,
twirling, seemed to say: 'Here Love rules'.


Then, full of apprehension,
how often I said:
'For certain she was born in Paradise.'
Her divine bearing
and her face, her speech, her sweet smile
captured me, and so separated me,
from true thought
that I would say, sighing:
'How did I come here, and when?'
believing I was in heaven, not there where I was.
Since then this grass
has so pleased me, nowhere else do I find peace.

Song, if you had as much beauty as you wished,
you could boldly
leave this wood, and go among people.

127. 'In quella parte dove Amor mi sprona'

I must turn these sorrowful verses, 
the followers of my tormented mind,
towards the place where Love drives me.
Which shall be last, alas, and which first?
He who talks to me of my ills
leaves me in doubt, he speaks so confusedly.
But I will speak as much of the history written 
in my heart's core, in his own hand, 
about my suffering (which I so often recall)
since by speaking I seek
a truce to sighs and help for sadness.
I say that, though I gaze
at a thousand diverse things attentively and fixedly,
I only see one lady, and one lovely face.

Since my pitiless fate separated me
from my greater good,
fate proud, inexorable and harmful,
Love aids me with the memory alone:
and when I see the earth in youthful guise
begin to clothe itself with grass,
I seem to see in that bitter season
the lovely young girl who is now a woman:
so that when the sun rises warming me,
it seems to me he is solely
that flame of love that claims noble hearts:
but when the day grieves
for him, who descends little by little,
I see her in her days of maturity.

Seeing leaves on the branches, or violets on the ground,
in the season when the cold lessens,
and gentler stars acquire power,
brings the violets and greenness to mind
with which Love, who still rules me,
armed himself at the start of our battle,
and that sweet graceful outer bark
that covered her childish limbs
that a gentle spirit inhabits today
seemed to me to make
all other pleasures base: so deeply I recall
her humble bearing
that flowered then, and increased beyond her years,
sole reason and solace for my torment.

Sometimes I see fresh snow
on distant hills struck by the sun:
as sun does snow, Love rules over me,
thinking of that more than mortal face
that makes my eyes moisten from afar,
but, close to, dazzles, and defeats the heart:
where between the white and the gold,
what has never been seen by human eye
except I think my own, reveals itself:
and that warm passion
which, when she smiles in sighing,
inflames me so that it makes me
forget nothing, but becomes eternal,
nor changes state, nor quenches spring.

I never see the wandering stars 
move through the calm air after night rain,
flaming more brightly among the dew and frost,
without seeing her eyes before me,
where the weariness of my life is soothed,
as I've seen them in the shadow of a lovely veil:
and as I saw the sky ablaze that day
with their beauty, so I see them still
sparkling through tears, so that I burn forever.
If I see the sun rising,
I feel the light appear that enamoured me:
if slowly setting,
I seem to see it turning elsewhere
leaving darkness behind as it goes.

If my eyes ever saw pure white 
and vermilion roses in a gold vase
freshly picked by a virgin hand,
I thought I saw her face
that exceeded all other marvels
through the three virtues caught up in her:
the blonde hair, loose on a neck
where any milk would lose its power,
and her cheeks that a sweet fire adorns.
But truly when a little breeze
stirs white and yellow flowers in the fields,
my mind turns to that place
and the first time I saw her golden hair
blown by the wind, so that I suddenly burned.

Perhaps it would be more believable if I
counted the stars one by one, or enclosed
the waves in a little glass, as for fresh thought
to be born in me, of telling in so small a space
all places that this flower of noble beauty
remaining still herself, has scattered her light
so that I can never depart from her:
nor will I: and if I flee at times,
she has closed the passes in heaven and earth,
so that to my weary eyes
she is always present, and I am all consumed.
And she stays with me,
so that I see nothing else, nor wish to see,
nor speak another's name in my sighing.

Song, you well know that what I say is not