[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Sol pur col foco il fabbro il ferro stende, “Rime”, 16th century.]
By fire the artist molds the ductile steel
Into the beauteous forms his thought defines;
And fire expels the alloys, which else conceal
The gold's pure luster, and its mass refines;
Nor can the Phoenix, matchless bird, resume
Its plumes except it burn. Be it my doom
Thus into death to burn; since Heaven assigns
Triumph over death to such in realms of light.
O Death, how sweet! O Conflagration bright!
If thus resolved to ashes upwards springs
The soul, no more a mortal home to claim;
Or rather, if transmuted into flame,
Which has by Nature's law a heavenward aim,
I'm wafted thither on immortal wings.
