Non so se è l'immaginata luce.
I KNOW not if it be the imaged light
Of its first Maker which the soul doth feel,
Or if, derived from memory or the mind,
Some other beauty shine into the heart;
Or if the ardent ray of its first state
Doth still resplendent beam within the mind,
Leaving I know not what unrestful pain,
Which is perchance the cause that makes me weep.
That which I see and feel is not with me:
I have no guide, nor know I where to look
To find one; yet it seems as if reveal'd.
Thus, lady, have I been since I beheld you;
Moved by a Yes and No,-sweet bitterness!
It surely was the effect your eyes produced.
Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale.
MINE eyes beheld no thing of mortal shape,
When the first gleam of thy serene regards
Shone on me, and the soul, that aye ascends
To' its end, had hoped to find in them its peace.
Stretching its wing toward Heaven, from whence
It aims not only at the beauty which
Pleases the eyes; since that is frail and weak,
It passes on to universal form.
The wise man, I affirm, in that which dies
Cannot find rest; nor seems it meet to love
What changes with the variance of time;
It is uncurb'd desire and sense, not love,
That kill the soul. Love makes more perfect here
On earth the mind, but perfecter in Heaven.
S'egli è che d' uom mortal giusto desio.
Ir it be true that any beauteous thing
Raises the pure and just desire of man
From earth to God, the eternal fount of all,
Such I believe my love: for as in her
So fair, in whom I all besides forget,
I view the gentle work of her Creator,
I have no care for any other thing
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous,
Since the effect is not of my own power,
If the soul doth by nature, tempted forth
Enamour'd through the eyes,
Repose upon the eyes, which it resembleth,
And through them riseth to the primal love,
As to its end, and honours in admiring:
For who adores the Maker needs must love his work.
Dimmi di grazia, Amor, se gli occhi miei.
Poet.-TELL me, O Love, I pray thee, do mine eyes
Behold that Beauty's truth which I admire?
Or lives it in my heart, for wheresoe'er
I turn, more fair her countenance appears?
Thou well must know, for thou dost come with her
To take from me my peace, whence I complain;
And yet I would not wish one brief sigh less,
Nor that the flame within me were less strong.
Love.-The Beauty thou regardest is from her,
But grows as to a better place it riseth,
If through the mortal eyes it finds the soul.
There it becomes ennobled, fair, divine;
For immortal thing assimilates the pure:
This one, and not the other, meets thine eye.
Ben può talor col mio ardente desio.
WELL may at times my hope with strong desire,
With longing rise, and unfallacious prove.
If our affections all displeasing are
To Heaven, to what end hath God made the world?
What juster cause to love thee can I have,
Than rendering glory to the eternal Peace
Whence the divine depends, that gives thee grace
To please, and sanctifies each gentle heart?
That love alone hath cheating hope which dies
With beauty that doth wane with every hour,
Since it is subject to a changeful face.
Sure is indeed the hope in a chaste heart,
That fades not with the changing of the bark,
And, drooping not, gives earnest here of Heaven.
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