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.