Because this life is short,
and thought trembles at the high enterprise,
I place little of my trust in either:
but hope that the sorrow
I cry silently might be accepted
where I long for, and where it ought to be.
Lovely eyes where Love has made his nest,
I direct my weak verse towards you,
of itself slow, but spurred by great delight:
and he who speaks of you
takes a noble subject as his theme,
which lifts him on loving wings
far from all base thought.
Now on these wings I fly to speak
of what I’ve long carried hidden in my heart.

Not that I’m blind
as to how my praise might harm you:
but my great passion cannot be opposed,
that which was born in me
when I saw that which is beyond all thought
beyond what others have spoken, or myself.
This cause of my sweet bitter state
none can understand as well as you.
When I melt like snow in the hot sun,
your gentle disdain
is perhaps because my unworthiness offends.
Oh, if that fear
did not quench the flame where I burn,
how blessed I’d be! For in your presence
it’s sweeter to die than live without you.

While I am not consumed
so frail an object in so fierce a fire,
it’s not true worth that prevents my ruin
but a little touch of fear,
that chills the errant blood in my veins,
restoring the heart so that it burns longer.
O hills, O Valleys, O rivers, O woods, O fields,
O witnesses to my hard life,
how many times have you heard me call for death!
Ah wretched fate
staying destroys me, and fleeing is no help.
But if a greater fear
did not restrain me, a short swift way
would bring this harsh bitter pain to an end:
and the blame would be hers who does not care.

Sadness why do you lead me
out of my path, to say what I do not wish.
Allow me to go where it pleases me to go.
I don’t complain of you
eyes, bright beyond what is mortal,
nor of him who tied me in this knot.
You see what colours Love often likes to paint
in the midst of my features,
and can imagine what he does inside,
where he stands over me night and day
with the power he gathered from you,
blessed and happy lights,
except that you cannot turn to see yourselves:
though as often as you turn again to me,
you see what you are in another.

If you could only see
the divine, unbelievable beauty
that I speak of, as those who gaze can,
immeasurable happiness
would fill your heart: perhaps its natural power
is kept remote from you to spare you.
Blessed is the soul that sighs for you
heavenly lights, so that I give thanks for life
that otherwise is worthless!
Alas, why do you so rarely
grant me what does not sate me?
Why do you not more often
consider how Love wastes me?
And why do you immediately rob me
of the good that now and then my spirit feels?

I say from time to time
through your pity, I feel
a strange new sweetness in my soul,
that clears my dead weight
of harmful thoughts, so that
of a thousand only one is left:
that is alone enough to live in joy.
And if this good could stay a while
no state would be equal to mine:
though such honour maybe
would make others envious, and me proud.
Alas, that must be why
sorrow attacks laughter in the end,
and why I interrupt that burning rapture
to return to myself, and think of myself again.

The loving thought
that lives within, is revealed to me in you,
such that it draws away all other joy:
then words and deeds
arise in me so that I hope I might
be made immortal, though the flesh dies.
Anguish and pain flee at your appearance,
and meet again in me when you depart.
But since my loving memory
prevents them entering
they do not sink beyond the surface:
so that if good fruit at times
is born of me, the seed’s first sown by you:
I’m an almost sterile soil in myself,
but tilled by you, so the praise is all yours.

Song, you do not release me, but stir me
to speak of what tempts me from myself:
therefore be certain not to exist alone.