Se col cieco desir che 'l cor distrugge
contando l'ore no m'inganno io stesso,
ora mentre ch'io parlo il tempo fugge
ch'a me fu inseme et a mercé promesso.
Qual ombra è sí crudel che 'l seme adugge,
ch'al disïato frutto era sí presso?
et dentro dal mio ovil qual fera rugge?
tra la spiga et la man qual muro è messo?
Lasso, nol so; ma sí conosco io bene
che per far piú dogliosa la mia vita
amor m'addusse in sí gioiosa spene.
Et or di quel ch'i' ò lecto mi sovene,
che 'nanzi al dí de l'ultima partita
huom beato chiamar non si convene.
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If, through blind desire that destroys the heart,
I do not deceive myself counting the hours,
now, while I speak these words, the time nears
that was promised to pity and myself.
What shade is so cruel as to blight the crop
which was so near to a lovely harvest?
And what wild beast is roaring in my fold?
What wall is set between the hand and grain?
Ah, I do not know: but I see only too well
that in joyous hope love led me on
only to make my life more sorrowful.
And now I remember words that I have read:
before the day of our final parting
we should not call any man blessed.
Note:
See Ovid: Metamorphoses iii. 136-7
for one possible source of the last lines.
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