Love is a fire that burns unseen,
a wound that aches yet isn't felt,
an always discontent contentment,
...
Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing;
Winds are soft, and skies serene;
...
Beneath a green and lofty oak reclined,
Corydon o'er the scale his finger threw
In ivy's shade, whose clinging tendrils grew
...
On earth I lived few years, and weary ones,
cram-full of stubborn, wretched misery;
the dark day's light deserted me so soon
...
So sweet the lyre, so musical the strain,
By which my suit, Belovëd! is expressed,
That, hearing them, no such indifferent breast
...
The souls of all were sad in solemn prayer,
Owning the mercy of their Lord Divine,
While in His holy presence so benign,
...
My gentle spirit! thou who hast departed
So early, of this life in discontent,
Rest thou there ever, in Heaven's firmament,
...
His generous visage gashed with heathen blade,
His Royal brow with dust and blood all wan,
Came to the mournful boat of Acheron
...
Within a wood nymphs were inhabiting,
Sibella, lovely nymph, was wandering free;
And climbing up into a shady tree,
The yellow blossoms there was gathering.
...
The eyes where love in chastest fire would glow,
Joying to be consumed amidst their light,
The face whereon with wondrous lustre bright
...
All hushed the heaven and earth, and wind the same,
The waves all spreading o'er the sandy plain,
While sleep doth in the sea the fish enchain,
...
Aurora with her new-born crystal ray
Arose the enamelled world again to dress,
When Nise, fair and gentle shepherdess,
...
Sweet, delicate fillet, who art left behind,
In pledge the joy I merit to redeem,
If, only seeing thee, half lost I seem,
What with the locks round which thou erst didst wind?
...
Quem vê, Senhora, claro e manifesto
o lindo ser de vossos olhos belos,
se não perder a vista só em vê-los,
já não paga o que deve a vosso gesto.
Este me parecia preço honesto;
mas eu, por de vantagem merecê-los,
dei mais a vida e alma por querê-los,
donde já me não fica mais de resto.
Assi que a vida e alma e esperança
e tudo quanto tenho, tudo é vosso,
e o proveito disso eu só o levo.
Porque é tamanha bem-aventurança
o dar-vos quanto tenho e quanto posso
que, quanto mais vos pago, mais vos devo.
...
Whoever, Lady, sees plainly on view
your beautiful eyes in their lustrous being
without being blinded in the act of seeing
is already not paying your face's due.
This seems to me an honest price,
but I, for the merit of deserving them,
gave both life and soul to serve them
apart from which I am without resource.
Enough that life and soul and hope
and as much as I have is all yours,
and the proof of this I alone know.
For such good fortune is beyond scope
giving you all that is in my power
as the more I pay you, the more I owe.
...
Transforma-se o amador na cousa amada,
por virtude do muito imaginar;
não tenho, logo, mais que desejar,
pois em mim tenho a parte desejada.
Se nela está minh'alma transformada,
que mais deseja o corpo de alcançar?
Em si sòmente pode descansar,
pois consigo tal alma está liada.
Mas esta linda e pura semideia,
que, como um acidente em seu sujeito,
assi co a alma minha se conforma,
está no pensamento como ideia:
o vivo e puro amor de que sou feito,
como a matéria simples busca a forma.
...
The lover becomes the thing he loves
by virtue of much imagining;
since what I long for is already in me,
the act of longing should be enough.
If my soul becomes the beloved,
what more can my body long for?
Only in itself will it find peace,
since my body and soul are linked.
But this pure, fair demigoddess,
who with my soul is in accord
like an accident with its subject,
exists in my mind as a mere idea;
the pure and living love I'm made of
seeks, like simple matter, form
...
Oh! como se me alonga, de ano em ano,
a peregrinação cansada minha!
Como se encurta, e como ao fim caminha
este meu breve e vão discurso humano!
Vai-se gastando a idade e cresce o dano;
perde-se-me um remédio, que inda tinha;
se por experiência se adivinha,
qualquer grande esperança é grande engano.
Corro após este bem que não se alcança;
no meio do caminho me falece,
mil vezes caio, e perco a confiança.
Quando ele foge, eu tardo; e, na tardança,
se os olhos ergo a ver se inda parece,
da vista se me perde e da esperança.
...
Oh how long, year after year,
my weary journey has kept on going!
How short a space until my brief
and useless human rambling ends!
Time wastes away and my ruin increases;
a remedy I used to have is gone.
If we can judge from past experience,
every large hope is a grand illusion.
I chase some good that can't be had:
when halfway there, I've lost the trail;
falling a thousand times, I despair.
It flees, I lag; and if, in my lagging,
I look up to see if it's still there,
it's lost from sight and lost from hope.
...
Sete anos de pastor Jacob servia
Labão, pai de Raquel, serrana bela;
mas não servia ao pai, servia a ela,
e a ela só por prémio pretendia.
Os dias, na esperança de um só dia,
passava, contentando-se com vê-la;
porém o pai, usando de cautela
em lugar de Raquel lhe dava Lia.
Vendo o triste pastor que com enganos
lhe fora assi negada a sua pastora,
como se a não tivera merecida;
começa de servir outros sete anos,
dizendo: — Mais servira, se não fora
para tão longo amor tão curta a vida.
...
Luís Vaz de Camões (Portuguese pronunciation: [luˈiʒ ˈvaʒ dɨ kaˈmõjʃ]; sometimes rendered in English as Camoens or Camoëns (e.g. by Byron in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers), /ˈkæm oʊˌənz/; c. 1524 or 1525 – 20 June [O.S. 10 June] 1580), is considered Portugal's and the Portuguese language's greatest poet. His mastery of verse has been compared to that of Shakespeare, Vondel, Homer, Virgil and Dante. He wrote a considerable amount of lyrical poetry and drama but is best remembered for his epic work Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads). His collection of poetry The Parnasum of Luís de Camões was lost in his lifetime. The influence of his masterpiece Os Lusíadas is so profound that Portuguese is sometimes called the "language of Camões".)
Love is a fire that burns unseen
Love is a fire that burns unseen,
a wound that aches yet isn't felt,
an always discontent contentment,
a pain that rages without hurting,
a longing for nothing but to long,
a loneliness in the midst of people,
a never feeling pleased when pleased,
a passion that gains when lost in thought.
It's being enslaved of your own free will;
it's counting your defeat a victory;
it's staying loyal to your killer.
But if it's so self-contradictory,
how can Love, when Love chooses,
bring human hearts into sympathy?
Translation: 2006, Richard Zenith