As I’ve no hope of returning ever
As I’ve no hope of returning ever,
Little ballad, lightly, softly,
Go yourself, to Tuscany,
Go straight to my lady,
Who of her great courtesy
Will show you highest honour.
You will bring her news of sighs,
Filled with pain, and great with fear:
But take care to meet no eyes
Hostile to a gentle nature:
My disadvantage then for sure
You’d work, like one opposed,
And be by her reproved,
And so prove pain for me:
So that after my death there’d be,
Weeping and fresh dolour.
Little ballad, you know that death
Grips me so that life deserts me,
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poem by Guido Cavalcanti
Added by Poetry Lover
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Deep in thoughts of love, I came
Deep in thoughts of love, I came
On two young maids,
One sang: ‘It rains
On us, the joy of love.’
Their faces were so calm and sweet,
With modesty and courtesy,
I said to them: ‘You hold the key
Of all virtue and nobility.
Ah, young maids, do not scorn me
Because of the wound that I carry,
My heart has been dead inside me
Since I left Toulouse.’
They turned their gaze towards me so
They might see how I was wounded
And how a spirit born of sorrow
From my wound’s deep centre issued.
When they saw me so destroyed,
One of them smiled and said:
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poem by Guido Cavalcanti
Added by Poetry Lover
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