Free Petrarch by Mark Musa

raccoglie,
    i’ mi rimango in signoria di lui,
    che mal mio grado a morte mi trasporta;
    sol per venir al lauro onde si coglie
    acerbo frutto, che le piaghe altrui
    gustando affligge più che non conforta.

5
    When I summon my sighs to call for you ,
    with that name Love inscribed upon my heart,
    in LAUdable the sound at the beginning
    of the sweet accents of that word comes forth.
    Your REgal state which I encounter next
    doubles my strength for the high enterprise ,
    but “TAcitly” the end cries , “for her honor
    needs better shoulders for support than yours.”
    And so, to LAUd and to REvere the word
    itself instructs whenever someone calls you,
    O lady worthy of all praise and honor,
    unless, perhaps, Apollo be offended
    that morTAl tongue be so presumptuous
    to speak of his eternally green boughs .
6
    So far astray is my insane desire
    to chase this lady who has turned in flight ,
    and light and liberated of Love’s snares,
    flies off ahead of my slow run for her ,
    that when, calling him back, the more I send him
    by the safe path the less he pays me heed;
    nor does it help to spur him or to turn him,
    for Love by its own nature makes him restive ;
    and when by force he takes the reins himself ,
    I am left there in harness of his lordship
    as he against my will rides me to death ,
    only to reach the laurel where is gathered
    the bitter fruit , once tasted, that afflicts
    rather than comforts someone else’s wounds.

7
    La gola e ’l sonno et l’oziose piume
    ànno del mondo ogni vertù sbandita,
    ond’ è dal corso suo quasi smarrita
    nostra natura vinta dal costume;
    et è sì spento ogni benigno lume
    del ciel per cui s’informa umana vita,
    che per cosa mirabile s’addita
    chi vol far d’Elicona nascer flume.
    Qual vaghezza di lauro, qual di mirto?
    “Povera et nuda vai, Filosofia,”
    dice la turba al vil guadagno intesa.
    Pochi compagni avrai per l’altra via:
    tanto ti prego più, gentile spirto,
    non lassar la magnanima tua impresa.
8
    A pie’ de’ colli ove la bella vesta
    prese de le terrene membra pria
    la donna che colui ch’ a te ne ’nvia
    spesso dal sonno lagrimando desta,
    libere in pace passavam per questa
    vita mortal, ch’ ogni animal desia,
    senza sospetto di trovar fra via
    cosa ch’ al nostro andar fosse molesta.
    Ma del misero stato ove noi semo
    condotte da la vita altra serena
    un sol conforto, et de la morte, avemo:
    che vendetta è di lui ch’ a ciò ne mena,
    lo qual in forza altrui presso a l’estremo
    riman legato con maggior catena.

7
    Gluttony, sleep, pillows of idleness ,
    have banished every virtue from the world
    whereby our nature conquered by its habits
    has almost lost its way along the road;
    so spent is every good light from the heavens
    which should inform our human life that he
    is pointed out as some remarkable thing
    who would make water flow from Helicon .
    Who wishes for the laurel , or for myrtle!
    “In poverty and naked goes Philosphy ,”
    the masses bent on making money say.
    You will have few companions on that road,
    so all the more I beg you, noble spirit,
    do not abandon your magnanimous task.
8
    Beneath those hills (where she had first adorned
    those worldly parts of hers in lovely clothes ,
    that lady, she who often wakens weeping
    the one who now is sending us to you)
    we used to make our way through mortal life
    in peace and freedom all creatures desire,
    without the fear of finding on our course
    something that might be harmful to our going.
    But for the wretched state to which we’ve been
    brought from the other life that was serene ,
    and for our death, we have one consolation:
    revenge is taken on the one who caught us,
    for he is caught by power of another
    and, near his end , is bound by greater chains.

9
    Quando ’l pianeta che distingue l’ore
    ad albergar col Tauro si ritorna,
    cade vertù da l’infiammate corna
    che veste il mondo di novel colore,
    Et non pur quel che s’apre a noi di fore,
    le rive e i colli, di fioretti