I, a mariner of love
I, a mariner of love,
sail passion’s perilous deeps
desperate to find a cove
or harbor, or rest or peace.
Guided by a distant star
more radiant, more bright,
though its light shines from afar,
than any Palinurus spied.
I know not where she leads,
I sail perplexed, confused,
my soul care-laden, careless,
wanting nothing but to gaze
Upon her. Uncommon
modesty, rarest virtue,
like clouds hide her fair mien;
I would restore it to view.
O splendid, luminous star,
cause of my tears and sighs,
when you hide your face entire
then I will surely die!
Oh, sweet hope of mine,
taming th’impossible, struggling past thorns,
bravely walking the path
that you alone have cut, you alone adorn;
do not despair fair hope
if each step brings you closer to death’s scope.
The slothful never win
laurels of triumph or honored victories;
since they ne’er contend
with fate, fortune, and fame they never see,
but weak in indolence,
they turn to idle joys of flesh and sense.
Love puts a high price on its glories; that is just and fair, for
there’s no richer prize
than one that is esteemed at its true worth,
and it is surely clear
that things are not highly valued if not dear.
Steadfastness in love
can often win impossibilities;
though this may prove
too harsh a terrain for my tenacity,
I despise that fear
and strive to reach my heaven from this sphere.
