Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Qua si fa elmi.


Here helms and swords are made of chalices:
        The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart:
        His cross and thorns are spears and shields; and short
        Must be the time ere even his patience cease.
Nay let him come no more to raise the fees
        Of this foul sacrilege beyond report!
        For Rome still flays and sells him at the court,
        Where paths are closed to virtue's fair increase.
Now were fit time for me to scrape a treasure!
        Seeing that work and gain are gone; while he
        Who wears the robe, is my Medusa still.
God welcomes poverty perchance with pleasure:
        But of that better life what hope have we,
        When the blessed banner leads to nought but ill?

Poi che spiegate.


        Now that these wings to speed my wish ascend,
                The more I feel vast air beneath my feet,
                The more toward boundless air on pinions fleet,
                Spurning the earth, soaring to heaven, I tend:
        Nor makes them stoop their flight the direful end
                Of Daedal's son; but upward still they beat:--
                What life the while with my life can compete,
                Though dead to earth at last I shall descend?
        My own heart's voice in the void air I hear:
                Where wilt thou bear me, O rash man? Recall
                Thy daring will! This boldness waits on fear!
        Dread not, I answer, that tremendous fall:
                Strike through the clo...

Ogni van chiuso.


All hollow vaults and dungeons sealed from sight,
        All caverns circumscribed with roof and wall,
        Defend dark Night, though noon around her fall,
        From the fierce play of solar day-beams bright.
But if she be assailed by fire or light,
        Her powers divine are nought; they tremble all
        Before things far more vile and trivial--
        Even a glow-worm can confound their might.
The earth that lies bare to the sun, and breeds
        A thousand germs that burgeon and decay--
        This earth is wounded by the ploughman's share:
But only darkness serves for human seeds;
        Night therefore is more sacred far than day,
        Since man excels all fruits however fair.

Se ben concetto.


When that which is divine in us doth try
        To shape a face, both brain and hand unite
        To give, from a mere model frail and slight,
        Life to the stone by Art's free energy.
Thus too before the painter dares to ply
        Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write
        Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite
        Wise minds to judge his figured history.
So, born a model rude and mean to be
        Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth,
        Lady, from you, you fountain of all worth!
Each overplus and each deficiency
        You will make good. What penance then is due
        For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?

Al zucchero, alla mula.


The sugar, candles, and the saddled mule,
        Together with your cask of malvoisie,
        So far exceed all my necessity
        That Michael and not I my debt must rule,
In such a glassy calm the breezes fool
        My sinking sails, so that amid the sea
        My bark hath missed her way, and seems to be
        A wisp of straw whirled on a weltering pool.
To yield thee gift for gift and grace for grace,
        For food and drink and carriage to and fro,
        For all my need in every time and place,
O my dear lord, matched with the much I owe,
        All that I am were no real recompense:
        Paying a debt is not munificence.

Io mi son caro assai più.


Far more than I was wont myself I prize:
        With you within my heart I rise in rate,
        Just as a gem engraved with delicate
        Devices o'er the uncut stone doth rise;
Or as a painted sheet exceeds in price
        Each leaf left pure and in its virgin state:
        Such then am I since I was consecrate
        To be the mark for arrows from your eyes.
Stamped with your seal I'm safe where'er I go,
        Like one who carries charms or coat of mail
        Against all dangers that his life assail
Nor fire nor water now may work me woe;
        Sight to the blind I can restore by you,
        Heal every wound, and every loss renew.

Com' esser, donna, può.


How can that be, lady, which all men learn
        By long experience? Shapes that seem alive,
        Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive
        Their maker, whom the years to dust return!
Thus to effect cause yields. Art hath her turn,
        And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive
        With Sculpture, know this well; her wonders live
        In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern.
So I can give long life to both of us
        In either way, by colour or by stone,
        Making the semblance of thy face and mine.
Centuries hence when both are buried, thus
        Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown,
        And men shall say, 'For her 'twas wise to pine.'

Mentre m' attrista.


Mid weariness and woe I find some cheer
        In thinking of the past, when I recall
        My weakness and my sins, and reckon all
        The vain expense of days that disappear:
This cheers by making, ere I die, more clear
        The frailty of what men delight miscall;
        But saddens me to think how rarely fall
        God's grace and mercies in life's latest year.
For though Thy promises our faith compel,
        Yet, Lord, what man shall venture to maintain
        That pity will condone our long neglect?
Still from Thy blood poured forth we know full well
        How without measure was Thy martyr's pain,
        How measureless the gifts we dare expect.

Non fur men lieti.


Not less elate than smitten with wild woe
        To see not them but Thee by death undone,
        Were those blest souls, when Thou above the sun
        Didst raise, by dying, men that lay so low:
Elate, since freedom from all ills that flow
        From their first fault for Adam's race was won;
        Sore smitten, since in torment fierce God's son
        Served servants on the cruel cross below.
Heaven showed she knew Thee, who Thou wert and whence,
        Veiling her eyes above the riven earth;
        The mountains trembled and the seas were troubled.
He took the Fathers from hell's darkness dense:
        The torments of the damnéd fiends redoubled:
        Man only joyed, who gained baptismal birth.

O nott' o dolce tempo.


O night, O sweet though sombre span of time!--
        All things find rest upon their journey's end--
        Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apprehend;
        And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom's prime.
Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime;
        For dews and darkness are of peace the friend:
        Often by thee in dreams upborne, I wend
        From earth to heaven, where yet I hope to climb.
Thou shade of Death, through whom the soul at length
        Shuns pain and sadness hostile to the heart,
        Whom mourners find their last and sure relief!
Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength,
        Driest our tears, assuagest every smart,
        Purging the spirits of the pure from grief.

Spirto ben nato.


Choice soul, in whom, as in a glass, we see,
        Mirrored in thy pure form and delicate,
        What beauties heaven and nature can create,
        The paragon of all their works to be!
Fair soul, in whom love, pity, piety,
        Have found a home, as from thy outward state
        We clearly read, and are so rare and great
        That they adorn none other like to thee!
Love takes me captive; beauty binds my soul;
        Pity and mercy with their gentle eyes
        Wake in my heart a hope that cannot cheat.
What law, what destiny, what fell control,
        What cruelty, or late or soon, denies
        That death should spare perfection so complete?

Quanta si gode, lieta.


What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
        Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
        Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
        As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
        That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind:
        And that fair woven net of gold refined
        Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
        Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
        And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace:
Yea, and the belt to such as understand,
        Bound round her waist, saith: here I'd ever cling.--
        What would my arms do in that girdle's place?

La vita del mie amor.


This heart of flesh feeds not with life my love:
        The love wherewith I love thee hath no heart;
        Nor harbours it in any mortal part,
        Where erring thought or ill desire may move.
When first Love sent our souls from God above,
        He fashioned me to see thee as thou art--
        Pure light; and thus I find God's counterpart
        In thy fair face, and feel the sting thereof.
As heat from fire, from loveliness divine
        The mind that worships what recalls the sun
        From whence she sprang, can be divided never:
And since thine eyes all Paradise enshrine,
        Burning unto those orbs of light I run,
        There where I loved thee first to dwell for ever.

Perchè Febo non torce.


What time bright Phoebus doth not stretch and bend
        His shining arms around this terrene sphere,
        The people call that season dark and drear
        Night, for the cause they do not comprehend.
So weak is Night that if our hand extend
        A glimmering torch, her shadows disappear,
        Leaving her dead; like frailest gossamere,
        Tinder and steel her mantle rive and rend.
Nay, if this Night be anything at all,
        Sure she is daughter of the sun and earth;
        This holds, the other spreads that shadowy pall.
Howbeit they err who praise this gloomy birth,
        So frail and desolate and void of mirth
        That one poor firefly can her might appal.

Non ha l' ottimo artista.


The best of artists hath no thought to show
        Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell
        Doth not include: to break the marble spell
        Is all the hand that serves the brain can do.
The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so
        In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable,
        Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well
        Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low.
Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face,
        Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain,
        Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny;
Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace
        Enclosed together, and my worthless brain
        Can draw forth only death to feed on me.

D' altrui pietoso.


Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
        A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
        Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
        In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
        Raiment in my outworn mortality!
        That, changing like the snake, I might be free
        To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
        Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
        Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
        The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
        Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!

Gli affetti di Pluton.


Deep in their hearts they hide the lusts of Hell:
        Christ's name is written on their brow, that those
        Who only view the husk, may not suppose
        What guile and malice harbour in the shell.
O God! O Wisdom! Holy Fervour! Well
        Of strength invincible to strike Thy foes!
        Give me the force--my spirit burns and glows--
        To strip those idols and to break their spell!
The zeal I bear unto Thy name benign,
        The love I feel for truth sincere and pure,
        When such men triumph, make me rend my hair.
How long shall folk this infamy endure--
        That he should be held sacred, he divine,
        Who strips e'en corpses in the graveyard bare?

Abitator del mondo.


Ye dwellers on this world, to the first Mind
        Exalt your eyes; and ye shall see how low
        Vile Tyranny, wearing the glorious show
        Of nobleness and worth, keeps you confined.
Then look at proud Hypocrisy, entwined
        With lies and snares, who once taught men to know
        The fear of God. Next to the Sophists go,
        Traitors to thought and reason, jugglers blind.
Keen Socrates to quell the Sophists came:
        To quell the Tyrants, Cato just and rough:
        To quell the Hypocrites, Christ, heaven's own flame.
But to unmask fraud, sacrilege, and lies,
        Or boldly rush on death, is not enough;
        Unless we all taste God, made inly wise.