Sonnets by Tommaso Campanella;Michelangelo Buonarroti
page 98 of 178 (55%)
page 98 of 178 (55%)
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I call the vain self-traitorous multitude
Back to my mother's milk; for it is she, Faithful to God her spouse, who nourished me, Making me quick and active to intrude Within the inmost veil, where I have viewed And handled all things in eternity. If the whole world's our home where we may run, Up, friends, forsake those secondary schools Which give grains, units, inches for the whole! If facts surpass mere words, melt pride of soul, And pain, and ignorance that hardens fools, Here in the fire I've stolen from the Sun! II. _TO THE POETS._ _In superbia il valor._ Valour to pride hath turned; grave holiness To vile hypocrisy; all gentle ways To empty forms; sound sense to idle lays; Pure love to heat; beauty to paint and dress:-- Thanks to you, Poets! you who sing the praise Of fabled knights, foul fires, lies, nullities; Not virtue, nor the wrapped sublimities Of God, as bards were wont in those old days. |
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