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
Ne la stagion che 'l ciel rapido inchina
verso occidente, et che 'l dí nostro vola
a gente che di là forse l'aspetta,
veggendosi in lontan paese sola,
la stancha vecchiarella pellegrina
raddoppia i passi, et piú et piú s'affretta;
et poi cosí soletta
al fin di sua giornata
talora è consolata
d'alcun breve riposo, ov'ella oblia
la noia e 'l mal de la passata via.
Ma, lasso, ogni dolor che 'l dí m'adduce
cresce qualor s'invia
per partirsi da noi l'eterna luce.

Come 'l sol volge le 'nfiammate rote
per dar luogo a la notte, onde discende
dagli altissimi monti maggior l'ombra,
l'avaro zappador l'arme riprende,
et con parole et con alpestri note
ogni gravezza del suo petto sgombra;
et poi la mensa ingombra
di povere vivande,
simili a quelle ghiande,
le qua' fuggendo tutto 'l mondo honora.
Ma chi vuol si rallegri ad ora ad ora,
ch'i' pur non ebbi anchor, non dirò lieta,
ma riposata un'hora,
né per volger di ciel né di pianeta.

Quando vede 'l pastor calare i raggi
del gran pianeta al nido ov'egli alberga,
e 'nbrunir le contrade d'orïente,
drizzasi in piedi, et co l'usata verga,
lassando l'erba et le fontane e i faggi,
move la schiera sua soavemente;
poi lontan da la gente
o casetta o spelunca
di verdi frondi ingiuncha:
ivi senza pensier' s'adagia et dorme.
Ahi crudo Amor, ma tu allor piú mi 'nforme
a seguir d'una fera che mi strugge,
la voce e i passi et l'orme,
et lei non stringi che s'appiatta et fugge.

E i naviganti in qualche chiusa valle
gettan le menbra, poi che 'l sol s'asconde,
sul duro legno, et sotto a l'aspre gonne.
Ma io, perché s'attuffi in mezzo l'onde,
et lasci Hispagna dietro a le sue spalle,
et Granata et Marroccho et le Colonne,
et gli uomini et le donne
e 'l mondo et gli animali
aquetino i lor mali,
fine non pongo al mio obstinato affanno;
et duolmi ch'ogni giorno arroge al danno,
ch'i' son già pur crescendo in questa voglia
ben presso al decim'anno,
né poss'indovinar chi me ne scioglia.

Et perché un poco nel parlar mi sfogo,
veggio la sera i buoi tornare sciolti
da le campagne et da' solcati colli:
i miei sospiri a me perché non tolti
quando che sia? perché no 'l grave giogo?
perché dí et notte gli occhi miei son molli?
Misero me, che volli
quando primier sí fiso
gli tenni nel bel viso
per iscolpirlo imaginando in parte
onde mai né per forza né per arte
mosso sarà, fin ch'i' sia dato in preda
a chi tutto diparte!
Né so ben ancho che di lei mi creda.

Canzon, se l'esser meco
dal matino a la sera
t'à fatto di mia schiera,
tu non vorrai mostrarti in ciascun loco;
et d'altrui loda curerai sí poco,
ch'assai ti fia pensar di poggio in poggio
come m'à concio 'l foco
di questa viva petra, ov'io m'appoggio.

At the moment when the swift sky turns
towards the west, and our day flies
to people beyond, perhaps, who see it there,
the weary old woman on a pilgrimage
finding herself alone in a far country,
redoubles her steps, and hurries more and more:
and then so alone
at the end of her day
is sometimes consoled
with brief repose that lets her forget
the troubles and the evils of the way.
But, alas, every grief the day brings me,
grows when the eternal light
begins to depart from us.

While the sun turns his fiery wheel
to give space to the night,
while darker shadows fall from the highest peaks,
the greedy peasant gathers his tools,
and with the speech and music of the mountains,
frees every heaviness from his heart:
and then sets out the meal
of an impoverished life,
like those acorns in the Golden Age
that all the world rejects but honours.
But let whoever will be happy hour on hour
since I have never yet had rest an hour,
not to speak of happiness,
despite the wheeling of the sky and stars.

When the shepherd sees the rays
of the great star sink to the nest where they hide,
darkening the eastern landscape,
he rises to his feet, and with his usual staff,
leaving the grass, the fountains and the beeches,
gently moves his flock:
far from other men
in cave or hut,
he scatters green leaves,
and without thought lies down to sleep.
Ah cruel Love, instead you drive me on
to follow the sound, the path and the traces,
of a wild creature that consumes me,
one I cannot catch, that hides and flees.

And the sailors in some enclosed bay
as the sun vanishes, throw their limbs
on the hard boards, still in their soiled clothes.
But though he dives into the deep waves,
and leaves Spain behind his back,
Granada, and Morocco and the Pillars,
and men and women,
earth and its creatures,
are free of their ills,
I never put an end to my lasting trouble:
and grieve that every day adds to my harm,
already my passion has been growing
for nearly ten long years,
and I can't imagine who could free me.

And, since speaking comforts me a little,
I see the oxen turn homewards in the evening,
from the fields and the furrows they have ploughed:
why has my sighing not been taken from me
at any time? Why not my heavy yoke?
Why are my eyes wet day and night?
Wretch that I am, what did I wish
when I first gazed
at that lovely face so fixedly
when I carved her image in that part
from which no force or art
can ever move it, till I am given as prey
to him who scatters all!
Nor even then can I say anything about him.

Song, if being with me
from dawn to evening
has made you of my company,
you'll not wish to show yourself everywhere:
and you'll care so little for other's praise,
it's enough for you to take thought, from hill to hill,
of how I'm scorched by fire
from this living stone, on which I lean.


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

A Merentha Entertainment Project


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