1. You who listen in mottled rhyme to the sound of those yearnings whence I nursed the heart when I first indulged my juvenile diversions, when I was, in part, another than I am; For the erratic style through which I weep and discourse between empty hope and empty grief, wherever they who've lived Love's trials be, I hope for faith, and mercy; But now I see too well just how publicly acclaimed I'd been; whence, often, of myself, by myself, I am ashamed; And shame is the fruit of my musings, as is regret, as is to clearly see that everything delighting the world is a brief dream.
2. In order to take out frivolous vengeance and punish at once a thousand crimes, Love clandestinely took its bow like an archer who stalks through time and space. My virtues fastened over the heart, upon the eyes, armed for defense, when a deadly shot was launched upon where spearheads used to break. Thus from the first volley, strength was úpset, without a territory or vigor needed to properly take arms; Neither to a wearisome promontory could it withdraw me from a carnage from which it wishes to, but can not, save me.
3. It was on the day when the sun's rays dimmed out of devotion for their Maker; when I niggardly let myself be captured, when your fair eyes, my lady, chained me. It did not appear I needed to take cover from Love's missiles; so I continued, confident and clueless; for this reason my troubles commenced amid the common grief. Love took me unprotected, and marched through eyes, become tears' gate and port, unchallenged, straight to the heart. And I sustain : it gave Love no glory to take me in such warfare since to you, so armed, he'd dare not unsheathe his bow.
4. One, who revealed infinite foresight and pure idea in Its manifest craft; who created as one both hemispheres and unlike Mars rendered Jupiter docile; alighting this world to illuminate the leaves within which truth was sealed, freed two disciples from their nets allotting to each a parcel of boundless realm. One, joyfully extolling humility over all other states, did not grace Rome, but Judea; a sun has dawned from an unnamed village so fair it, with Nature, is extolled for this radiant Lady's formation.
5. As I breathe those longings to invoke you, and the name etched in my heart by Love, the first soft tones of its accents, lauding from without, begin to resound; then I face your sovereign rank, which to the bold feat only doubles my mettle; when: "Enough! portray her no longer, her homage is other hands' yoke; see that it not be yours." That same voice instructs, however, despite others calling, to extol and venerate you, who merit all awe and honor; unless perhaps it disgusts Apollo that a pretentious mortal's tongue dare even mention the evergreen limbs.
9. When the planet who tolls the hours returns from pasture with his ox whose blazen horns shower and dress our world with newly painted virtues, not just that which lies before us will streams and hills and blossoms adorn, but the hidden and needless of renewal will bathe itself in the earthen liquor and bear us these and similar fruits.
She, who is the sun above all women whose beams shoot from fair eyes, creates thoughts and deeds and words of Love in me; but no matter how or where she shines, the Spring for me will never come.
14. My weary eyes, as I turn you upon the comely face of she who's snuffed you, I beg of you: be careful: for Love's already challenged you, and I long. Solely death may bar my thoughts from the beloving path that leads them to a sweeter harbor of well being; but your light may be concealed from you for even less, for you were forged much less complete, as well of lesser strength. Wound ridden, before tears' encroaching hours reach us, you must now at last take some brief respite from this too lengthy martyrdom.
92. Cry oh women, and may Love cry with you, crying, oh lovers, through every land, for he is dead, he who'd been all intent as he lived, in bringing honor to you. As for me, I beg my acerb pain that my tears not be challenged from him, that my lament be only as courtly as needed to purge the heart; and let the rhymes cry yet; cry, oh verses, for our beloving servant Cino has from us just departed. May Pistoia cry with her perverse populace who's lost so sweet a neighbor; and may the heaven where he's gone rejoice."
126. You, limpid cool sweet waters, within whom she, solely to me woman, immersed her fair semblance; you, noble bough, upon whom she delighted (agasp how I myself remember) in leaning, like a sweet pillar; you, blades and blossoms, upon whom the lithe apparal over her angelic bosom draped; you, lofty placid air, through whom Love's fair eyes exposed my heart; all of you; listen now to this last grievous utterance. If it should be my fate, if heaven deems it useful that Love shut these teeming eyes, may some grace lay away this petty corpse among you, and this bared spirit return to its own abode; death shall seem less cruel as long as I bear such hope when I alight that undiscovered country; for this wretched ghost may never, neither to a more pacific harbor nor to a calmer ditch, flee from these afflicted flesh and bones. The time yet may come when, to her habitual den, the fair and docile beast returns; and there, where she first noticed me on that happiest day, turns her sight, wistful and joyous seeking me; oh fruit of devotion! and albeit dirt she find amid the stones, Love charms her in such a way she gasps, so softly that I'm petrified with thanks; and she gives even the heavens strength wiping her eyes with her diaphanous veil. From verdant boughs – sweetest of annals! – a shower of petals rains upon her lap as she seats herself, so timid yet in such glory, nearly obscured by the amorous storm. What petals landed upon her train, what petals on her golden braids, which that day did not appear like pearls on polished gold? Which ones fell upon the earth, which others on the waves; and which ones spinning in random flight did not proclaim: "This is Love's realm"? And how often did I not exclaim, utterly filled with awe: "She could not have been born but in Eden!"? Overcome, and entranced, her divine gait, and miens, and words, and sweet beam had so detached me from her very image that I longingly blurted: "How did I get here, and when ?" believing myself in heaven, not where I was. From that time on only this mead delights me, to the extent that elsewhere I find no peace. If your devices were as great as your ambition you could boldly leave these woods, and dwell within the world.
205. Sweet wrath, sweet scorn, sweet truces, sweet ache, sweet gasp, sweet burden, sweet speech, so sweetly grasped in such sweet airs, in such sweet glimmers. Spirit, protest not but in silence bear and soften the sweet acrimony that's assailed us with the sweet honor you'd taken to love her to whom I sang: "Only you delight me." Perhaps there's yet one who, longing, claims, tinged with sweet envy: "How much he bore for Love's sake fair in his day." Yet others: "Fortune, nemesis to my eyes , why did I not see her? Why did she not come later? Why was I not in time?"
210. Should you seek from Spain's Ebro to the Indic Hydaspes through the depths of all the ocean, from the crimson sands to the Caspian foam you'll not find in land or sky but one phoenix. What raven, what crow, on my right and left perches, cawing my future? Which fate spins it? I've found devotion as deaf as the asp, and myself miserable despite hopes for joy. I'd prefer not to laud her, but she instills the hearts of those who glance with love and sweetness, offering to them only what they can render; but to turn my sweetness bitter and vile she pretends, or ignores, or realizes not that this head, ahead of time, starts withering.
211. Desire drives me, Love follows and directs me, joy seduces me, convention transports me, hope flatters and reassures me casting a right palm upon an exhausted heart; The poor soul takes it but doesn't realize who our blind and faithless companion is; the senses rule, all reason's dead, and from one errant longing another springs. Strength and honor, beauty, noble deeds and gentle words are draped on verdant limbs for me in a place where the heart is lovingly soothed. Nineteen nundred ninety: upon that first hour, the last day of September I entered the maze, and still see no emerging.
213. Graces bestowed by heaven but on few: a rare morale, no not of humankind, and a hoary mind disguised beneath blondest hair, most Divine beauty in the humblest of women; Unique and pilgrim lithe, the song reverberant within the soul, celestial gait, a wandering ardent spirit, who shatters the hardened and makes the mighty bow; The radiant eyes that glaze the heart, of a power to enlighten both Pit and NIght, that abduct the soul to clothe one with another's; Whose voice sounds nought but sweet and lofty thought softly dashing despondent gasps and sighs. These were the wizards who transformed me.
219. The sparrows' waking chants and mewls, and, through limpid crisp lean brooks, crystalline murmers streaming compose the din of the vale at daybreak. She, whose skin is snow, whose hair, gold, whose unfaltered love, free from ploy, rouses me with these amorous songs while stroking her husband's hoary fleece. I stir, greeting the dawn and her mate the sun, whose glare has blinded me ever since: I saw the two of them one morning as they arose together, when in a single time and place he made the stars, and then was made to, disappear.
265. Jagged and savage heart, callous desires, on soft, and tame, and angelic form; if their intent oppressions persist, my pitiful remains: their booty; As blossoms, shoots, and foliage sprout and wither, as the day is lucid, and the night obscure, I cry. I've been so close to my plight, my Lady, and with Love, it cripples me. I survive through hope, remembering I'd witnessed a slight trickle sheerly devour marble and bedrock; Is there a heart so hard that tears, that prayer, that Love can not erode; a will so frigid, it can not melt?
267. The fair face, the exquisite gaze, the lithe and magnificent gait; the voice with which you tamed every rough and savage mind and made brave men of cowards; And the sweet smile that shot the arrow whose only boon I'd hope for now is death; sovereign spirit, worthiest of empire, if only you'd not descended among us so late. I must burn for you and breathe through you for I was solely yours; and if of you I'm to be deprived then this shall be the least of my misfortunes. You filled me with hope and with desire when I lost all hope in the truest vibrant joy . . . But the words were spoken to the wind.
272. Life races on and never rests a moment and death trails behind in leaps and bounds, and all things past and present have taken arms against me, as will those of future; and memory and hope equally beset me at every turn so that, in truth, if it were not for my self indulgence I'd have already shelter from these conceits. Petty heart, had you ever known the faintest joy, you'd return to me. But just beyond horizon stirs a gale, and a storm is brewing in the port, and my helmsman, long exhausted, and the comely beams I'd look toward, snuffed.
273. Acting? Thinking? Just glancing back, unreachable spirit, upon what was that can no longer be? Just stoking the pyre on which you burn, alive? Those exquisite words, those tender gazes, you one by one described, depicted, are no longer the earth's; all too aware that to seek them now's untimely, too late. No, do not awaken our assassin; do not chase after stray fallacious thoughts but the one auspicious, durable and safe. If no joy's left here we'll embrace the heavens, for if she's to rob us of peace through death, as in life, her beauty was our misfortune.