I' pensava assai destro esser su l'ale,
non per lor forza, ma di chi le spiega,
per gir cantando a quel bel nodo eguale
onde Morte m'assolve, Amor mi lega.
Trovaimi a l'opra via piú lento et frale
d'un picciol ramo cui gran fascio piega,
et dissi: - A cader va chi troppo sale,
né si fa ben per huom quel che 'l ciel nega. -
Mai non poria volar penna d'ingegno,
nonché stil grave o lingua, ove Natura
volò, tessendo il mio dolce ritegno.
Seguilla Amor con sí mirabil cura
in adornarlo, ch'i' non era degno
pur de la vista: ma fu mia ventura.
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I thought I had wings enough to take flight,
not through their power, but he who unfurled them,
equal to turning, singing, towards that lovely knot
from which Death freed me, to which Love tied me.
I found myself slow for that path, and weak
as a little branch that a great load bends,
and said: 'He who flies too high will fall:
what heaven denies us is not good for man.'
But no wings of wit can fly, much less
a heavy style or tongue, where Nature flew
weaving that sweet knot of mine.
Love followed with so much care
in adorning her, I was not worthy
to see it even: yet it was my good fortune.
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