Crescita d’amore – John Donne

Victor Elpidiforovitch Borissov-Moussatov, A spring sun, 1898 -1901

 

Credo appena il mio amore cosí puro
come l’avevo pensato
se, come l’erba, dura
vicissitudine e stagione.
Dunque tutto l’inverno mentii, quando giuravo
il mio amore infinito, se cresce a primavera.

Ma se amore, questa medicina
che cura ogni dolore con dolore maggiore,
non è la quintessenza ma, di piú,
misto è di tutto, pena d’anima o senso,
e dal sole prende il suo vigore,
non è amore cosí puro né astratto
come dicono quelli che non hanno altro amore
che la Musa. Ma, come ogni altra cosa
composta di elementi, amore a volte vuole
contemplare, altre fare.

Eppure piú eminente, non maggiore,
l’amore è divenuto a primavera.
Come nel firmamento il sole svela,
non dilata, le stelle,
gentili atti d’amore, come bocci sul ramo,
gemmano alla radice ridesta dell’amore.

Se (come in acqua smossa molti circoli
produce il primo) amore
riceve tali moltiplicazioni,
queste, come altrettante sfere, fanno un solo
cielo, poiché son tutte a te concentriche.
E sebbene ogni aprile aggiunga nuovo
fuoco all’amore, al modo di quei principi
che esigono nel tempo dell’azione
nuovi tributi, senza abrogarli in pace,
cosí nessun inverno gelerà
la crescita d’aprile dell’amore.

John Donne

(Traduzione di Cristina Campo)

da “Poesie amorose, poesie teologiche”, Einaudi, Torino, 1971

***

Love’s growth

I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure
                 As I had thought it was,
                Because it doth endure
Vicissitude and seasons, as the grasse;
Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore,
My love was infinite, if spring make’it more.

But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not onely bee no quintessence,
But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense,
And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent,
                Love by the spring is growne;
               As, in the firmament,
Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg’d, but showne.
Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough,
from loves awakened root do bud out now.
If, as in water stir’d more circles bee
Produc’d by one, love such additions take,
Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make,
For, they are all concentrinque unto thee;
And though each spring doe adde to love new heate,
As princes doe in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the springs encrease.

I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.

But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mix’d of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense,
And of the sun his active vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse;
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As in the firmament
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.

If, as in water stirr’d more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those like so many spheres but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in times of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate this spring’s increase.

John Donne

da “Songs and Sonnets”, E. K. Chambers, 1896

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