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.