# New Life (Rossetti 1899)/Section 5

All sections in this Wikisource copy are divided arbitrarily to match the accompanying LibriVox recordings. Neither Dante's original Italian text nor the translation by Rossetti is so divided, but rather each proceeds without clear division into sections.
​Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four other things touching my ​condition, the which things it seemed to me that I had not yet made manifest. The first among these was the grief that possessed me very often, remembering the strangeness which Love wrought in me; the second was, how Love many times assailed me so suddenly and with such strength that I had no other life remaining except a thought which spake of my lady; the third was, how, when Love did battle with me in this wise, I would rise up all colourless, if so I might see my lady, conceiving that the sight of her would defend me against the assault of Love, and altogether forgetting that which her presence brought unto me; and the fourth was, how, when I saw her, the sight not only defended me not, but took away the little life that remained to me. And I said these four things in a sonnet, which is this:—
At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine, ​Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?" Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear; So that of all my life is left no sign Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine, Leaves not the body but abideth there. And then if I, whom other aid forsook, Would aid myself, and innocent of art Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once and stop.
This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things being therein narrated; and as these are set forth above, I only proceed to distinguish the parts by their beginnings. Wherefore I say that the second part begins, "Love smiteth me;" the third, "And then if I;" the fourth, "No sooner do I lift."
After I had written these three last sonnets, ​wherein I spake unto my lady, telling her almost the whole of my condition, it seemed to me that I should be silent, having said enough concerning myself. But albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write of another matter, more noble than the foregoing. And for that the occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I will relate it as briefly as I may.
Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was now understood of many. Which thing being thus, there came a day when certain ladies to whom it was well known (they having been with me at divers times in my trouble) were met together for the pleasure of gentle company. And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very sweet speech. And when I had come close up with them, and perceived that they ​had not among them mine excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted them, asking of their pleasure The ladies were many; divers of whom were laughing one to another, while divers gazed at me as though I should speak anon. But when I still spake not, one of them, who before had been talking with another, addressed me by my name, saying, "To what end lovest thou this lady, seeing that thou canst not support her presence? Now tell us this thing, that we may know it: for certainly the end of such a love must be worthy of knowledge." And when she had spoken these words, not she only, but all they that were with her, began to observe me, waiting for my reply. Whereupon I said thus unto them:—"Ladies, the end and aim of my Love was but the salutation of that lady of whom I conceive that ye are speaking; wherein alone I found that beatitude which is the goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her ​to deny me this, Love, my Master, of his great goodness, hath placed all my beatitude there where my hope will not fail me." Then those ladies began to talk closely together; and as I have seen snow fall among the rain, so was their talk mingled with sighs. But after a little, that lady who had been the first to address me, addressed me again in these words: "We pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this thy beatitude." And answering, I said but thus much: "In those words that do praise my lady." To the which she rejoined: "If thy speech were true, those words that thou didst write concerning thy condition would have been written with another intent."
Then I, being almost put to shame because of her answer, went out from among them; and as I walked, I said within myself: "Seeing that there is so much beatitude in those words which do praise my lady, wherefore hath my speech of her been ​different?" And then I resolved that thenceforward I would choose for the theme of my writings only the praise of this most gracious being. But when I had thought exceedingly, it seemed to me that I had taken to myself a theme which was much too lofty, so that I dared not begin; and I remained during several days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of beginning. After which it happened, as I passed one day along a path which lay beside a stream of very clear water, that there came upon me a great desire to say somewhat in rhyme: but when I began thinking how I should say it, methought that to speak of her were unseemly, unless I spoke to other ladies in the second person; which is to say, not to any other ladies, but only to such as are so called because they are gentle, let alone for mere womanhood. Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as though by its own impulse, and said, "Ladies that have intelligence in love." ​These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving to take them as my commencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days, I began a poem with this beginning, constructed in the mode which will be seen below in its division. The poem begins here:—
Ladies that have intelligence in love, Of mine own lady I would speak with you; Not that I hope to count her praises through, But telling what I may, to ease my mind. And I declare that when I speak thereof, Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me That if my courage failed not, certainly To him my listeners must be all resign'd. Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind That mine own speech should foil me, which were base; But only will discourse of her high grace In these poor words, the best that I can find, ​With you alone, dear dames and damozels: 'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith To God: "Lord, in the world that Thou hast made, A miracle in action is display'd, By reason of a soul whose splendours fare Even hither: and since Heaven requireth Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee, Thy Saints crying aloud continually." Yet Pity still defends our earthly share In that sweet soul; God answering thus the prayer: "My well-belovèd, suffer that in peace Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is, There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her: And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say, 'I have looked on that for which God's chosen pray.'"
My lady is desired in the high Heaven: Wherefore, it now behoveth me to tell, ​Saying: Let any maid that would be well Esteemed keep with her: for as she goes by, Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there: While any who endures to gaze on her Must either be ennobled, or else die. When one deserving to be raised so high Is found, 'tis then her power attains its proof, Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof With the full strength of meek humility. Also this virtue owns she, by God's will: Who speaks with her can never come to ill.
Love saith concerning her: "How chanceth it That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure?" Then, gazing always, he makes oath: "Forsure, This is a creature of God till now unknown." She hath that paleness of the pearl that's fit In a fair woman, so much and not more; ​She is as high as Nature's skill can soar; Beauty is tried by her comparison. Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon, Spirits of love do issue thence in flame, Which through their eyes who then may look on them Pierce to the heart's deep chamber every one. And in her smile Love's image you may see; Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.
Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech With many ladies, when I send thee forth: Wherefore (being mindful that thou hadst thy birth From Love, and art a modest, simple child), Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each: "Give me good speed! To her I wend along In whose much strength my weakness is made strong." And if, i' the end, thou wouldst not be beguiled Of all thy labour, seek not the defiled ​And common sort; but rather choose to be Where man and woman dwell in courtesy. So to the road thou shalt be reconciled, And find the lady, and with the lady, Love. Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.
This poem, that it may be better understood, I will divide more subtly than the others preceding; and therefore I will make three parts of it. The first part is a proem to the words following. The second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preceding words. The second begins here, "An Angel;" the third here, "Dear Song, I know." The first part is divided into four. In the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my lady, and wherefore I will so speak. In the second, I say what she appears to myself to be when I reflect upon her excellence, and what I would utter if I lost not courage. In the third, I say what it is ​I purpose to speak so as not to be impeded by faintheartedness. In the fourth, repeating to whom I purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to them. The second begins here, "And I declare;" the third here, "Wherefore I will not speak;" the fourth here, "With you alone." Then, when I say "An Angel," I begin treating of this lady: and this part is divided into two. In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven. In the second, I tell what is understood of her on earth: here, "My lady is desired." This second part is divided into two; for, in the first, I speak of her as regards the nobleness of her soul, relating some of her virtues proceeding from her soul; in the second, I speak of her as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating some of her beauties: here, "Love saith concerning her." This second part is divided into two, for, in the first, I speak of certain beauties which belong to the whole person; in the second, I speak of certain ​beauties which belong to a distinct part of the person: here, "Whatever her sweet eyes." This second part is divided into two; for, in the one, I speak of the eyes, which are the beginning of love; in the second, I speak of the mouth, which is the end of love. And that every vicious thought may be discarded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is above written that the greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires, while I could receive it. Then, when I say, "Dear Song, I know," I add a stanza as it were handmaid to the others, wherein I say what I desire from this my poem. And because this last part is easy to understand, I trouble not myself with more divisions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the meaning of this poem, more minute divisions ought to be used; but nevertheless he who is not of wit enough to understand it by these which have been already made is welcome to leave it alone; for certes, I fear I ​have communicated its sense to too many by these present divisions, if it so happened that many should hear it.