Petrarca

Sábado de tarde. Troquei o jogo Azerbeijão-Portugal por um pouco de tranquilidade com leitura - perdi-me (ou será que me encontrei?...) na poética de Petrarca. Ah, não resisito a compartilhar este Soneto encontrado no túmulo da sua amada Laura. Fica aqui, nas traduções do latim de Capel Lofft e Woodhouselee (Alexander Fraser Tytler).

Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa.

Here rest the chaste, the dear, the blest remains
Of her most lovely; peerless while on earth:
What late was beauty, spotless honour, worth,
Stern marble, here thy chill embrace retains.

The freshness of the laurel Death disdains;
And hath its root thus wither'd.—Such the dearth
O'ertakes me. Here I bury ease and mirth,
And hope from twenty years of cares and pains.

This happy plant Avignon lonely fed
With Life, and saw it die.—And with it lies
My pen, my verse, my reason;—useless, dead.

O graceful form!—Fire, which consuming flies
Through all my frame!—For blessings on thy head
Oh, may continual prayers to heaven rise!
Capel Lofft.

*******

Here now repose those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honour, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!

Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.

O happy plant! Avignon's favour'd soil
Has seen thee spring and die;—and here with thee
Thy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.

O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
Woodhouselee (Alexander Fraser Tytler).