February 24th, 2008

Thomas

timeless


Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374): Sonetto CXXXII


S’amor non è, che dunque è quel ch’io sento?
Ma s’egli è amor, perdio, che cosa e quale?
Se bona, onde l’effetto aspro mortale?
Se ria, onde sí dolce ogni tormento?

S’a mia voglia ardo, onde ‘l pianto e lamento?
S’al mal mio grado, il lamentar che vale?
O viva morte, o dilectoso male,
come puoi tanto in me, s’io nol consento?

E s’io ‘l consento, a gran torto mi doglio.
Fra sí contrari vènti in frale barca
mi trovo in alto mar senza governo,

sí lieve di saver, d’error sí carca,
ch’i’ medesmo non so quel ch’io mi voglio,
e tremo a mezza state, ardendo il verno.

THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE.


If no love is, O God, what fele I so?
And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe?
If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh me
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of him may to me savory thinke:
For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.
And if that at my owne lust I brenne,
From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?
If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?
I not nere why unwery that I feinte.
O quicke deth, O surele harme so quainte,
How may I see in me such quantite,
But if that I consent that so it be?

CHAUCER.

If 'tis not love, what is it feel I then?
If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above!
If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?
If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?
If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?
If not my will, tears cannot love remove.
O living death! O rapturous pang!--why, love!
If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?
If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn:
Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borne
By adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost;
Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze,
My blind opinion ever dubious strays;
I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.



Ist's Liebe nicht, was ists denn, was ich fühle?
Doch ist es Liebe, o Gott, was ist sie, welcher Art?
Ists gute: warum die rauhe tödliche Wirkung?
Ists schlechte: warum so süß jede Qual?

Brenn ich aus eigenem Willen: warum das Weinen und Klagen?
Tu ichs gegen meinen Willen: wozu dann die Klage?
O Tod voller Leben, o Leiden voller Lust,
wie vermagst du soviel über mich, stimm ich nicht selber zu?

Und stimm ich zu, beklag ich mich zu Unrecht.
Zwischen so widerstreitenden Winden
treib ich auf hoher See im zerbrechlichen Boot ohne Steuer,


so leicht an Wissen und mit Irrtum so beladen,
daß ich selber nicht weiß, was ich denn will,
im Sommer schaudernd und im Winter glühend.





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