Petrarch Laura Francesco Petrarch and Laura For a woman he would never know
For a woman he could never have
He should change the world forever
site map   contact  

  PETRARCH
  LAURA & OTHERS

  PICTURES
  WRITINGS
  BOOKS

  THE COLLECTION

  EVENTS
  PAPERS & ESSAYS
  MUSIC SETTINGS

  FAQs
  WEB LINKS
  SITE MAP

  CONTACT

Google


Search this Site
Search the Web



Petrarch:The Canzoniere

Translated by: A.S.Kline
Download them all in English or Italian
<<< PREVIOUS <<< Poem 332 of 366 >>> NEXT >>>
JUMP TO POEM

Information on the sonnet is available here.
Looking for an analysis of a specific poem from the Canzoniere?
Read I go thinking an analysis of poem 264 by Holly Barbaccia.


ITALIAN ENGLISH
Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver lieto,
i chiari giorni et le tranquille notti
e i soavi sospiri e 'l dolce stile
che solea resonare in versi e 'n rime,
vlti subitamente in doglia e 'n pianto,
odiar vita mi fanno, et bramar morte.

Crudel, acerba, inexorabil Morte,
cagion mi di di mai non esser lieto,
ma di menar tutta mia vita in pianto,
e i giorni oscuri et le dogliose notti.
I mei gravi sospir' non vanno in rime,
e 'l mio duro martir vince ogni stile.

Ove condutto il mio amoroso stile?
A parlar d'ira, a ragionar di morte.
U' sono i versi, u' son giunte le rime,
che gentil cor udia pensoso et lieto;
ove 'l favoleggiar d'amor le notti?
Or non parl'io, n penso, altro che pianto.

Gi mi fu col desir s dolce il pianto,
che condia di dolcezza ogni agro stile,
et vegghiar mi facea tutte le notti:
or m' 'l pianger amaro pi che morte,
non sperando mai 'l guardo honesto et lieto,
alto sogetto a le mie basse rime.

Chiaro segno Amor pose a le mie rime
dentro a' belli occhi, et or l' posto in pianto,
con dolor rimembrando il tempo lieto:
ond'io vo col penser cangiando stile,
et ripregando te, pallida Morte,
che mi sottragghi a s penose notti.

Fuggito 'l sonno a le mie crude notti,
e 'l suono usato a le mie roche rime,
che non sanno trattar altro che morte,
cos 'l mio cantar converso in pianto.
Non 'l regno d'Amor s vario stile,
ch' tanto or tristo quanto mai fu lieto.

Nesun visse gi mai pi di me lieto,
nesun vive pi tristo et giorni et notti;
et doppiando 'l dolor, doppia lo stile
che trae del cor s lagrimose rime.
Vissi di speme, or vivo pur di pianto,
n contra Morte spero altro che Morte.

Morte m' morto, et sola p far Morte
ch'i' torni a riveder quel viso lieto
che piacer mi facea i sospiri e 'l pianto,
l'aura dolce et la pioggia a le mie notti,
quando i penseri electi tessea in rime,
Amor alzando il mio debile stile.

Or avess'io un s pietoso stile
che Laura mia potesse trre a Morte,
come Euridice Orpheo sua senza rime,
ch'i' vivrei anchor pi che mai lieto!
S'esser non p, qualchuna d'este notti
chiuda omai queste due fonti di pianto.

Amor, i' molti et molt'anni pianto
mio grave danno in doloroso stile,
n da te spero mai men fere notti:
et per mi son mosso a pregar Morte
che mi tolla di qui, per farme lieto,
ove colei ch'i' canto et piango in rime.

Se s alto pn gir mie stanche rime,
ch'agiungan lei ch' fuor d'ira et di pianto,
et fa 'l ciel or di sue bellezze lieto,
ben riconoscer 'l mutato stile,
che gi forse le piacque anzi che Morte
chiaro a lei giorno, a me fesse atre notti.

O voi che sospirate a miglior' notti,
ch'ascoltate d'Amore o dite in rime,
pregate non mi sia pi sorda Morte,
porto de le miserie et fin del pianto;
muti una volta quel suo antiquo stile,
ch'ogni uom attrista, et me p far s lieto.

Far mi p lieto in una o 'n poche notti:
e 'n aspro stile e 'n angosciose rime
prego che 'l pianto mio finisca Morte.

My kindly fate, and a life made happy,
the clear days, and the tranquil nights,
the gentle sighs, and the sweet style
that alone sounded in my verse and rhyme,
suddenly changed to grief and weeping,
making me hate my life, and long for death.

Cruel, bitter, and inexorable Death,
you give me reason never to be happy,
but to live my life instead with weeping,
darkened days, and the saddened nights.
My heavy sighs will not go into rhyme,
and my harsh pain defeats every style.

What has become of my loving style?
It speaks of anger, it reasons about death.
Where are the verses, where is the rhyme,
the gentle thoughtful heart heard, and was happy:
where are the tales of love these many nights?
Now I talk and think of nothing but weeping.

Once my desire so sweetened my weeping,
it touched with sweetness all my sour style,
and kept me awake through the long nights:
now the weeping's more bitter to me than death,
hoping no more for that glance, chaste and happy,
the noble subject of my lowly rhyme.

Love set a clear theme for my rhyme:
those lovely eyes, but now my weeping,
remembering with grief times that were happy:
so that I change my thoughts and my style,
and pray to you again, pallid Death,
to rescue me from such painful nights.

He has fled from me these cruel nights,
so have the usual sounds from my hoarse rhyme,
that knows no other theme than death,
so that my singing changes to weeping.
Love's kingdom has no more varied style
that is as sad now as ever it was happy.

No one alive has ever been so happy,
no one lives more sadly these days and nights:
and he doubles the grief, in a double style
who draws from the heart such sad rhyme.
I lived on hope, now I live by weeping,
and have no hope against Death, but Death.

Death has killed me, and only Death
can make me see that face again, so happy
that the sighs pleased me and the weeping,
the sweet breeze, and the rain of nights,
while I wove choice thoughts in rhyme,
Love elevating my weak style.

Now if I had so pity-inducing a style
that I could bring my Laura back from Death,
as Orpheus did Eurydice, without rhyme,
then I would live, and be still more happy!
If it cannot be, one of these nights
will close for ever my two founts of weeping.

Love, I've had many years, and much weeping
about my grave ills in the saddest style,
nor from you do I ever hope for kinder nights:
and so I'm moved to pray to Death
to take me from here, and make me happy,
to where she is, whom I sing and weep in rhyme.

If it can rise so high, in weary rhyme,
to reach her who's beyond pain and weeping,
and with her beauty makes heaven happy,
she'll understand my altered style,
which pleased her perhaps before Death
brightened her day, and brought me dark night.

Oh you who sigh for easier nights,
who hear of Love or speak of him in rhyme,
pray he'll no longer be deaf to me, sweet Death,
refuge from misery and end of weeping:
that he'll change for once his ancient style,
that makes men sad, and could make me happy.

He could make me happy in a single night:
and, in harsh style and in anguished rhyme,
I pray my weeping will end in death.


© Copyright 1999-2006
Peter Sadlon
Updated Sept 10th 2007

A Merentha Entertainment Project


PETRARCH LAURA PICTURES WRITINGS BOOKS EVENTS PAPERS SETTINGS FAQs CONTACT