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Ne la stagion che ’l ciel rapido inchina a translation of Petrarch’s canzon 50 by Eric Rosenbloom copyright 1995 Around the time when the sky so rapidly inclines Westwards, and our day from us is flying To people elsewhere who are waiting for it In a lonely country far away, Here a tired old woman collecting shells Doubles her step and hurries on the more And then alone At the end of her day Cheered and consoled By some brief rest she thus forgets The weariness and harm of the past road. But, alas! every sorrow that the day brings me Increases, sending away From us by stages more eternal light. And the sun turns the flaming wheel To give its place to night, by waves descending From the highest mountains in greater shadow, The miserly tapper takes again his weapons And with words sung to alpine notes Every heaviness he clears out from his breast, Then fills his table With poor foods Like those acorns Whose promise of growth the world honors. And so he finds himself cheered from hour to hour: Which I have yet to know, nor spoken happily, Not rested even an hour — Not by the turning sky nor the planets. When the shepherd sees the slowly lowering rays Of the great planet reach the nest where he lodges, And on the other side the darkening east, He rises to his feet, and with the well-used staff, Leaving the grass and the fountains and the mountain beeches, He moves his wandering flock so softly, gently; Then far from people, In cottage or cave With green leaves covered, Without a care he lies down and sleeps. Ah, cruel Love, then you inspire me more To follow one in whom I wildly adore The voice I hear, each footprint: And I don’t come any closer — she moves and escapes. And sailors in some quiet enclosed valley Throw their limbs, after the sun disappears, Onto hard wood and sleep under rough cloths. But I, afloat with the sun in the midst of the waves, As we are leaving Spain behind our back, Granada, Morocco, and out beyond the Pillars, The men and the women, The world and the animals In solace from hurts — No end is coming to my stubborn unease, And I lament each day augmenting injury When I have grown already in painful desire Almost ten years by now, Not able to divine when I will be released. Because to speak of it relieves me a little I imagine at evening oxen returning untied From country fields and the furrowed hills of their toil. Why are my sighs not taken from me When thus I sing? Why not the heavy yoke? Why day and night are my eyes awash in tears? Ah me, recalling When first transfixed By the gaze of her face, To penetrate, I imagined, into places Neither waves nor other force nor any art Will it move, until I am given as prey To that which ends it all — But I am sure I believe in more than that. Song, if being with me From morning through the evening Has brought you into my flock, You will not show yourself in every light, For others’ praise you will not care a bit; Enough for you the thought from page to page Of how I faint with the fire Of this living rock, where here at last I rest. |