Michelangelo Buonarroti

(1475-1564 / Italy)

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Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni[1] (6 March 1475 – 18 February 1564), commonly known as Michelangelo, was an Italian Renaissance painter, sculptor, architect, poet, and engineer. Despite making few forays beyond the arts, his versatility in the disciplines he took up was of such a high order that he is often considered a contender for the title of the archetypal Renaissance man, along ... more »

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Comments about Michelangelo Buonarroti

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  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (12/30/2015 12:55:00 PM)

    curiously, Michelangelo did not hold in high regard his poetic production, coming to call his poetry 'silly'

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (12/30/2015 12:55:00 PM)

    About 300 finished and unfinished Michelangelo's poems survive - mostly madrigals and sonnets.

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (11/18/2015 2:24:00 PM)

    ''O Notte, o dolce tempo'', by Michelangelo Buonarroti (Italian text)

    O Notte, o dolce tempo, benchè nero,
    con pace ogn'opra sempre al fin assalta,
    ben vede e ben intende chi t'esalta,
    e chi t'onora ha l'intelletto intero.
    Tu mozzi e tronchi ogni stanco pensiero,
    che l'umid' ombra e ogni quet'appalta,
    e dell'infima parte alla più alta
    in sogno spesso porti ov'ire spero.
    O ombra del morir, per cui si ferma
    ogni miseria all'alma, al cor nemica,
    ultimo degli afflitti e buon rimedio,
    tu rendi sana nostra carn' inferma,
    rasciugh' i pianti e posi ogni fatica
    e furi a chi ben vive ogni ira e tedio

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Best Poem of Michelangelo Buonarroti

Celestial Love

NO mortal thing enthralled these longing eyes
When perfect peace in thy fair face I found;
But far within, where all is holy ground,
My soul felt Love, her comrade of the skies:
For she was born with God in Paradise;
Nor all the shows of beauty shed around
This fair false world her wings to earth have bound:
Unto the Love of Loves aloft she flies.
Nay, things that suffer death, quench not the fire
Of deathless spirits; nor eternity
Serves sordid Time, that withers all things rare.
Not love but lawless impulse is desire:
That slays the soul; our ...

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