L'aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo
spira sí spesso, ch'i' prendo ardimento
di dirle il mal ch'i'ò sentito et sento,
che, vivendo ella, non sarei stat'oso.
I' incomoncio da quel guardo amoroso,
che fu principio a sí lungo tormento,
poi seguo come misero et contento,
di dí in dí, d'ora in hora, Amor m'à roso.
Ella si tace, et di pietà depinta,
fiso mira pur me; parte sospira,
et di lagrime honeste il viso adorna:
onde l'anima mia dal dolor vinta,
mentre piangendo allor seco s'adira,
sciolta dal sonno a se stessa ritorna.
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My sacred breeze so often breathes
on my weary rest, that I take courage
to tell her of the ills I felt and feel, as,
had she lived, I would not have dared to do.
I begin with that loving glance,
which was the start of this long torment,
then follow with how love gnaws me,
wretched or content, day by day, hour by hour.
She is silent, and gazes at me intently,
the picture of pity: sighing at times,
her face adorned by virtuous tears:
so that my mind overcome with grief,
angered with itself, because of her weeping,
returns to itself, shaken from sleep.
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