359. ‘Quando il soave mio fido conforto’

When my gentle faithful comforter

to grant some peace to my weary life,

settles herself on the left edge of my bed,

with her sweet wise reasoning,

I grow pale at her pity and my fear,

saying: ‘O happy soul, where have you come from?’

She takes a little branch of palm

and one of laurel from her lovely breast,

and says: ‘From the serene

heavenly empyrean and those sacred places

I moved, and came alone, to bring solace.’

I thank her humbly in words and manner,

and then ask: ‘How did you know my state?’

And she replies: ‘The sad waves of weeping

with which you never seem to be sated,

and the breeze of sighs, reach heaven

through all of space, and trouble my peace:

it displeases you so greatly

that I have left this misery,

and reached a better life:

it should please you, if you loved me,

as much as you professed in words and looks.’

I reply: ‘I don’t weep other than for myself

who am left behind in darkness and torment,

certain always that you have leapt to heaven,

as if it were something I had seen nearby.

Why would God and Nature have set

so much virtue in a youthful heart,

if the eternal welcome

were not destined for your good deeds,

O rare spirit,

who lived nobly amongst us here,

and then suddenly flew to heaven?

But what can I do other than weep for ever,

wretched and alone, who am nothing without you?

I wish I had died at the breast or in my cradle

in order not to prove the temper of love!’

And she: ‘Why always weep and grieve yourself?

How much better to lift your wings from earth,

and weigh mortal things

more justly, and those sweet deceptive

words of yours,

and follow me, if you truly love me so,

pluck one of these branches today!’

Then I responded: ‘I wish to ask,

what do those two branches signify?’

And she: ‘You can answer that yourself,

you whose pen honours one more than others’ do:

the palm is victory, and I, still young,

conquered myself and the world: the laurel

signifies triumph, of which I’m worthy,

by grace of that Lord who gave me strength.

Now you, if other things weary you,

turn to Him, pray to him for help,

so we may be with Him at the end of your path.’

I say: ‘Is this the blonde hair, and the golden knot

that still ties me, and those lovely eyes

that were my sun?’ She says: ‘Don’t err

like a fool, nor speak or think that way.

I am a naked spirit, and delight myself in heaven:

what you look for is dust, and for many years,

but it is given to me to seem such

as will draw you from your trouble: and still

will be so, lovelier than ever,

dearer to you, as cruel and kind,

gaining together your salvation and mine.’

I weep: and she dries my face

with her hand, and then she sighs

sweetly, and speaks

words that might shatter stone:

and afterwards departs, along with sleep.