XXXII.
After my eyes had wept for some time, and were so wearied that I could not give vent to my sadness, I thought to try to give vent to it with some words of grief; and therefore I resolved to make a canzone, in which, lamenting, I would discourse of her for whom such grief was wasting my soul; and I began then, “The eyes that grieve,” etc.
In order that this canzone may seem to remain the more a widow after its end, I will divide it before I write it out; and this mode I shall follow henceforth. I say that this poor little canzone has three parts: the first is the proem; in the second, I discourse of her; in the third, I speak pitifully to the canzone. The second begins here: “To the high heaven;” the third, here: “Sad song of mine.” The first is divided into three: in the first, I tell wherefore I am moved to speak; in the second, I tell to whom I wish to speak; in the third, I tell of whom I wish to speak. The second begins here: “And since I do remember.” The third, here: “And then, lamenting.” Then when I say, “To the high heaven hath Beatricè gone,” I discourse of her; and of this I make two parts. First, I tell the reason wherefore she was taken from us; then I tell how others mourn her departure; and this part begins here: “Departed from.” This part is divided into three: in the first, I tell who does not mourn for her; in the second, I tell who mourns for her; in the third, I tell of my own condition. The second begins here: “But he hath grief and woe;” the third, “Great anguish.” Then when I say, “Sad song of mine,” I speak to this my canzone, pointing out to it the ladies to whom it is to go, and with whom it is to stay.
The eyes that grieve with pity for the heart
Have of their weeping borne the penalty,
So that they now remain as if subdued.
Wherefore if I would to the grief give vent,
Which by degrees conducts me unto death,
Me it behoves to tell my woe in speech.
And since I do remember that I spoke
Of her, my lady, while she was alive,
Ye gentle ladies, willingly with you,
I will not speak of her,
Save only to a lady’s gentle heart.
And then, lamenting, I will tell of her,
That she to heaven suddenly hath gone,
And hath left Love behind in grief with me.
To the high heaven hath Beatricè gone,
Unto that realm where peace the angels have,
And dwells with them; you, ladies, hath she left.
No quality of cold ‘t was took her there,
Nor yet of heat, such as affecteth others,
But ‘t was her great benignity alone.
Because the light of her humility
Passed through the heavens with power so great,
It made to marvel the Eternal Lord;
So that a sweet desire
Upon Him came to summon such salvation;
And from below He made her come to Him,
Because He saw that this distressful life
Unworthy was of such a gentle thing.
Departed from her person beautiful,
The gentle soul replete with every grace
Now dwelleth glorious in a fit abode.
Who weeps her not when he doth speak of her
Hath heart of stone so vile and so perverse
Spirit benign can never enter there.
Nor is there wit so high of villain heart
That aught concerning her it can conceive,
Therefore to it comes not the wish to weep.
But he hath grief and woe,
With sighing and with weeping unto death,
And of all comfort is his soul bereft,
Who sometimes in his thought considereth
What she was, and how from us she is taken.
Great anguish do my sighs give unto me,
Whene’er my thought unto my heavy mind
Doth bring her to me who hath cleft my heart.
And thinking oftentimes concerning death,
There comes to me so sweet desire therefor
That it transmutes the color in my face.
When this imagination holds me fixed,
Such pain assaileth me on every side,
That then I tremble with the woe I feel;
And such I do become
That from the people shame takes me away:
Then, alone, weeping, I lamenting call
On Beatrice, and say: “Art thou, then, dead?
And while I call her I am comforted.
The tears of grief, and sighs of agony,
Lay waste my heart whene’er I am alone,
So he would sorrow for it who might see.
And what indeed my life hath been since she,
My lady, to the new world went away.
No tongue there is that could know how to tell.
And therefore, ladies mine, e’en though I wished,
I could not truly tell you what I am.
To me this bitter life such travail brings,
And it is so abased,
That every man who sees my deathlike look
Appears to me to say, “I cast thee off.”
But what I am, that doth my lady see,
And thereof I yet hope reward from her.
Sad song of mine, now weeping go thy way,
And find again the dames and damosels
To whom thy sisters all
Were wont to be the bearers of delight;
And thou who art the daughter of despair,
Go forth disconsolate to dwell with them.