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
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Petrarch:The Canzoniere

Translated by: A.S.Kline
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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
Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi
non vestí donna unquancho
né d'or capelli in bionda treccia attorse,
sí bella com'è questa che mi spoglia
d'arbitrio, et dal camin de libertade
seco mi tira, sí ch'io non sostegno
alcun giogo men grave.

Et se pur s'arma talor a dolersi
l'anima a cui vien mancho
consiglio, ove 'l martir l'adduce in forse,
rappella lei da la sfrenata voglia
súbita vista, ché del cor mi rade
ogni delira impresa, et ogni sdegno
fa 'l veder lei soave.

Di quanto per Amor già mai soffersi,
et aggio a soffrir ancho,
fin che mi sani 'l cor colei che 'l morse,
rubella di mercé, che pur l'envoglia,
vendetta fia, sol che contra Humiltade
Orgoglio et Ira il bel passo ond'io vegno
non chiuda et non inchiave.

Ma l'ora e 'l giorno ch'io le luci apersi
nel bel nero et nel biancho
che mi scacciâr di là dove Amor corse,
novella d'esta vita che m' addoglia
furon radice, et quella in cui l'etade
nostra si mira, la qual piombo o legno
vedendo è chi non pave.

Lagrima dunque che da gli occhi versi
per quelle, che nel mancho
lato mi bagna chi primier s'accorse,
quadrella, dal voler mio non mi svoglia,
ché 'n giusta parte la sententia cade:
per lei sospira l'alma, et ella è degno
che le sue piaghe lave.

Da me son fatti i miei pensier' diversi:
tal già, qual io mi stancho,
l'amata spada in se stessa contorse;
né quella prego che però mi scioglia,
ché men son dritte al ciel tutt'altre strade
et non s'aspira al glorïoso regno
certo in piú salda nave.

Benigne stelle che compagne fersi
al fortunato fianco
quando 'l bel parto giú nel mondo scórse!
ch'è stella in terra, et come in lauro foglia
conserva verde il pregio d'onestade,
ove non spira folgore, né indegno
vento mai che l'aggrave.

So io ben ch'a voler chiuder in versi
suo laudi, fôra stancho
chi piú degna la mano a scriver porse:
qual cella è di memoria in cui s'accoglia
quanta vede vertú, quanta beltade,
chi gli occhi mira d'ogni valor segno,
dolce del mio cor chiave?

Quando il sol gira, Amor piú caro pegno,
donna, di voi non ave.
Green dresses, crimson, black or purple,
were never worn by ladies,
nor golden hair tied in a fair braid,
as beautifully as she who robs me
of my will, and takes away the path
of my liberty, so I cannot even
tolerate a lighter yoke.

And even if my spirit begins to grieve,
losing its judgement,
when suffering brings doubt,
the loose will is quickly restrained
by the sight of her, who razes from my heart
every mad project, and makes all
disdain sweet through seeing her.

I will have revenge, for all that Love
has made me suffer, all I must still suffer
until she heals the heart she ravaged,
she, alien to pity, but still enticing,
unless Anger and Pride opposing Humility
close off and deny the way
that leads to her.

And the day and the hour that opened my eyes
to the lovely dark and the lovely white
that emptied me of that where Love now lives,
were the new roots of the life that troubles me,
as she does in whom our age is reflected,
for he is made of lead or stone
whom she does not make afraid.

So no tear of those I weep,
because of these arrow-tips
bathing my heart, that first felt them, in blood,
signifies that I un-wish what I wished,
the punishment falls in the right place:
through the eyes my soul sighs, and it's right
that they bathe my wounds.

My own thoughts struggle against me:
so Dido, weary as I am now,
turned her beloved sword against herself:
yet I do not pray for my freedom,
since all other roads to heaven are less true,
and there is no safer ship in which to aspire
to the glorious kingdom.

Benign stars that were friends
to that fortunate womb
when that beauty came to this world!
She is a star on earth, and she keeps
her chastity as laurel stays green,
so no lightning strikes her, no shameful breeze
can ever force her.

I know that to capture her praise in verse
would be to exceed
the most worthy that set hand to writing.
What cell of memory is there in which to hold
so much virtue and so much beauty together
that shine in her eyes, the sign of all value,
the key to unlock my heart.

Lady, beneath the sun's circle, Love has
no greater treasure than you.



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

A Merentha Entertainment Project


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