I' piansi, or canto, ché 'l celeste lume
quel vivo sole alli occhi miei non cela,
nel qual honesto Amor chiaro revela
sua dolce forza et suo santo costume;
onde e' suol trar di lagrime tal fiume,
per accorciar del mio viver la tela,
che non pur ponte o guado o remi o vela,
ma scampar non potienmi ale né piume.
Sí profondo era et di sí larga vena
il pianger mio et sí lunge la riva,
ch'i' v'aggiungeva col penser a pena.
Non lauro o palma, ma tranquilla oliva
Pietà mi manda, e 'l tempo rasserena,
e 'l pianto asciuga, et vuol anchor ch'i' viva.
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I wept, now I sing, that the celestial light
no longer hides the living sun from my eyes,
where chaste clear Love reveals
his sweet strength and his sacred custom:
from them he drew such floods of tears,
in shortening the thread of my life,
not only bridges, fords, oars, sails,
failed to rescue me, but feathered wings.
My tears were so deep and wide,
and the shore was so far away,
I could not reach it, even in fancy.
Now Pity brings me not the palm, or laurel,
but the peaceful olive and clear weather,
dries my tears, and wishes me still to live.
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