[Jacopone da Todi, Amor, diletto amore, “Laude”, XVIII, 13th century.]
The Soul speaks:
Love, O dearest Love,
Why hast Thou left me, Love?
Tell me, Love, if Thou wilt,
Tell me why Thou hast fled,
Leaving me wrapt in doubt,
Grieved and uncomforted.
If Thou art angry, I said,
Fain would I make Thee content;
If I then turn and repent,
Wilt Thou not repent Thee, Love?
Love, why give to my heart
Sweetness so deep, so fair,
Only to snatch away
The joy that was nestling there?
That man is not debonair,
Who gives, and taketh again:
If my complaint be vain,
Not mine is the fault, O Love!
Love, Thy company sweet
Soon was taken away:
When I am parted from thee,
I know not the night from the day;
My mind, forlorn and astray,
Wanders, seeking its bliss;
Robbed in a moment of this,
It loseth its being, Love.
Love, if a wicked man
Stealeth another's store,
The Court will arraign him straight,
Make him repay and restore:
So the Court I implore
For justice full and free
Thou terrible Robber, on thee,
Who hast stolen away my Love!
Love, if a merchant-man,
Honoured by great and small,
Should secretly rob the friend
Who trusted him with his all,
In the dust his honour must fall,
When his sin is visible made;
And every one is afraid
To trust him again, O Love.
Love, there be merchant-men,
Who are joined in a company:
If one take thievish profits—
No matter which one it be,
None of their hoard is free;
Tainted is all their wealth
By him who hath snatched in stealth,
In secret robbery, Love.
Love, if a man be willing
To sell of his merchandise,
And seeth one that hath need,
Should he flee from him who buys?
Should he speak to him on this wise:
"Here are goods to be bought!"—
The intent to give him naught
Hid in his heart, O Love?
Love, it was very fair—
Fair was thy merchandise!
If Thou hadst never shown it,
These tears were not in mine eyes.
Thou hast planted memories
Of its beauty in my mind,
With anguish of death entwined:
Thou hast woven them subtly, Love!
Love, if a man be rich,
And a gentle wife should wed,
Would it be for his honour
That she should beg her bread?
Thy wealth is un-measured,
Thou couldst give to all a part,
Thou couldst satisfy my heart,
Yet Thou wilt not do it, Love!
Love, my husband Thou art,
Thou hast taken me for Thy bride:
Can it be for Thine honour
That I should starve at Thy side?
My all to Thee I confide,
Thou hast my life in Thy hand;
—And I am scorned in the land,
Despised and dishonoured, Love!
Love, Who hast shown the starved
Bread that he longs to claim,
Yet giv'st it not to his hunger,
Art Thou not sore to blame?
—Hungry and dying I came,
To me Thou hast shown Thy bread:
I too, I too, would be fed!
Yet Thou wilt not feed me, Love!
Love, my strength and my will
Thou hast so straitly bound,
Taking their nurture away,
They perish without a sound;
So wretched now I am found,
Perchance I could not receive,
E'en wert Thou willing to give;
I bid Thee remember it, Love!
Love, if one dwell at an inn,
Renting a lodging there,
And leave it before the time,
Is he not judged unfair?
All the costs he must bear,
Back to that house must hie,
Nor cherish an enmity
To the claimant who calls him, Love.
Love Speaks:
O Man, lamenting thy lot,
Swift in answer I say:
When I came to dwell in thine inn,
Long did I hope to stay;
Alas! I was chased away—
'Twas the world who sojourned there.
Unjust thy murmuring prayer
When thou mak'st complaint of Love.
Thou knowest, while I was there,
What treasure for thee I spent;
How canst thou then complain,
If now thou art not content?
To cleanse thy house was I bent—
Thy house that was foul with mire!
I strove with devout desire,
To make it a home for Love.
When I was forced to depart,
Bearing away what was Mine,
How canst thou dare to say
That I robbed thee of what was thine?
Thou know'st how soiled was that shrine—
I could not linger nor stay;
Then how dost thou dare to say,
That I robbed thee of thy Love?
If a precious thing and a fair,
Be granted a man in loan,
—No sudden and certain gift—
What wrong hath he to bemoan,
If the lender take back his own,
From one so thankless and cold?
Who spurns the Hand he might hold,
Of Him Who hath lent His Love.
Thou know'st how many a time,
When I dwelt within thy door,
Thou hast fiercely chased Me forth,
Scorning Me more and more.
When I lodged with thee before,
Thine enemy sure I seemed,
Since thou hast thus blasphemed
So fair and noble a Love.
The Soul speaks:
Love, Thou hast made excuse,
Therewith am I satisfied:
Yea, I will silence the murmur
I made in error and pride.
I bow my head at Thy side;
Accept my penitent pain,
Nor crush and wound me again,
By hiding Thyself, my Love.
Love speaks:
Yea, I will straight return,
Now that I see thee repent;
Though by thy pride and anger
Far from thee I was sent.
Nor can I let thee lament
That I was faithless or cold;
I, who eternally hold
To the loyalty of Love.
