Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Seven Sonnets and a Canzone

I THE ARTIST Nothing the greatest artist can conceive        &nbsp That every marble block doth not confine        &nbsp Within itself; and only its design        &nbsp The hand that follows intellect can achieve. The ill I flee, the good that I believe,        &nbsp In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,        &nbsp Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine        &nbsp Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,        &nbsp Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,        &nbsp Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place        &nbsp At the same time, and if my humble brain,        &nbsp Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee. II FIRE Not without fire can any workman mould        &nbsp The iron to his preconceived design,        &nbsp Nor can the artist without fire refine        &nbsp And purify from all its dross the gold; Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told,        &nbsp Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine        &nbsp I hope to rise again with the divine,        &nbsp Whom death augments, and time cannot make old. O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns        &nbsp Within me still to renovate my days,        &nbsp Though I am almost numbered with the dead! If by its nature unto heaven returns        &nbsp This element, me, kindled in its blaze,        &nbsp Will it bear upward when my life is fled. III YOUTH AND AGE Oh give me back the days when loose and free        &nbsp To my blind passion were the curb and rein,        &nbsp Oh give me back the angelic face again,        &nbsp With which all virtue buried seems to be! Oh give my panting footsteps back to me,        &nbsp That are in age so slow and fraught with pain,        &nbsp And fire and moisture in the heart and brain,        &nbsp If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee! If it be true thou livest alone, Amor,        &nbsp On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts,        &nbsp In an old man thou canst not wake desire; Souls that have almost reached the other shore        &nbsp Of a diviner love should feel the darts,        &nbsp And be as tinder to a holier fire. IV OLD AGE The course of my long life hath reached at last,        &nbsp In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,        &nbsp The common harbor, where must rendered be        &nbsp Account of all the actions of the past. The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast,        &nbsp Made art an idol and a king to me,        &nbsp Was an illusion, and but vanity        &nbsp Were the desires that lured me and harassed. The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore,        &nbsp What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,—        &nbsp One sure, and one forecasting its alarms? Painting and sculpture satisfy no more        &nbsp The soul now turning to the Love Divine,        &nbsp That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms. V TO VITTORIA COLONNA Lady, how can it chance—yet this we see        &nbsp In long experience—that will longer last        &nbsp A living image carved from quarries vast        &nbsp Than its own maker, who dies presently? Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be,        &nbsp And even Nature is by Art at surpassed;        &nbsp This know I, who to Art have given the past,        &nbsp But see that Time is breaking faith with me. Perhaps on both of us long life can I        &nbsp Either in color or in stone bestow,        &nbsp By now portraying each in look and mien; So that a thousand years after we die,        &nbsp How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe,        &nbsp And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen. VI TO VITTORIA COLONNA When the prime mover of my many sighs        &nbsp Heaven took through death from out her earthly place,        &nbsp Nature, that never made so fair a face,        &nbsp Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes. O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries!        &nbsp O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit of grace,        &nbsp Where art thou now? Earth holds in its embrace        &nbsp Thy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies. Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay        &nbsp The rumor of thy virtuous renown,        &nbsp That Lethe's waters could not wash away! A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down,        &nbsp Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey,        &nbsp Except through death, a refuge and a crown. VII DANTE What should be said of him cannot be said;        &nbsp By too great splendor is his name attended;        &nbsp To blame is easier those who him offended,        &nbsp Than reach the faintest glory round him shed. This man descended to the doomed and dead        &nbsp For our instruction; then to God ascended;        &nbsp Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid,        &nbsp Who from his country's, closed against him, fled. Ungrateful land! To its own prejudice        &nbsp Nurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well,        &nbsp That the most perfect most of grief shall see. Among a thousand proofs let one suffice,        &nbsp That as his exile hath no parallel,        &nbsp Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he. VIII CANZONE Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years, The vanished years, alas, I do not find Among them all one day that was my own! Fallacious hope; desires of the unknown, Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears (For human passions all have stirred my mind), Have held me, now I feel and know, confined Both from the true and good still far away. I perish day by day; The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fail, infirm and weary