Il tempo passa, e l'hore son sí pronte
a fornir il viaggio,
ch'assai spatio non haggio
pur a pensar com'io corro a la morte:
a pena spunta in oriente un raggio
di sol, ch'a l'altro monte
del adverso orizonte
giunto il vedrai per vie lunghe e distorte.
Le vite son sí corte,
sí gravi i corpi e frali
degl' huomini mortali,
che quando io mi ritrovo dal bel viso
cotanto esser diviso,
col desio non potendo mover l'ali,
poco m'avanza del conforto usato,
nè so quant'io mi viva in questo stato. Petrarca,Canzoniere 37, 17-32
English translation
Time passes and the hours are so quick
to complete their journey,
that I have no space
even to think how I race towards death.
A ray of sunlight has hardly appeared
in the east before you see it strike a high peak
on the opposite horizon,
by a long curving path.
Life is so short,
the bodies of mortal men
so burdensome and weak,
that when I recall how I am separated
from that lovely face,
unable to move the wings of my desire,
my usual solace is of little help,
and how long can I live in such a state. Translation A.S.Kline
English translation
The time flies by, the hours prompt
in their rat-race.
They leave no space
to consider how I careen towards death.
The sun barely rises in the east
before it’s setting far in the west
on some high peak, its light
vanishing along the earth’s curve.
Our lives are so short,
frail human bodies
so weighed down.
It comes back to me: I’m cut off
from that lovely face.
Desire’s wings are clipped.
All the usual comforts are useless.
How can I live like this?
Italian text
English translation