the way which has been told. For I am compelled, by the poverty of my
intellect, to omit much of the truth concerning her which shone into
my mind like rays of light, but which my mind receives like a
transparent body, unable to gather up the ends thereof and reflect
them back. And this I express in that following part: "First, all that
Reason cannot make its own I needs must leave." Then, when I say, "And
of what can be known," I say that not even to that which I do
understand am I sufficient, because my tongue is not so eloquent that
it could tell that which is discoursed in my thoughts concerning her.
It may be seen, therefore, that, with respect to the Truth, it is very
little that I shall say; and this redounds to her great praise, if
well considered, in that which was the main intention. And it is
possible to say that this form of speech came indeed from the workshop
of Rhetoric, which on every side lays its hand upon the main
intention. Then, when it says, "If my Song fail," I excuse myself for
my fault, which ought not, then, to be blamed when others see that my
words are far below the dignity of this Lady. And I say that, if the
defect is in my rhymes, that is, in my words, which are appointed to
discourse of her, for this are to be blamed the weakness of the
intellect and the abruptness of our speech: "blame wit and words,"
which are overpowered by the thought, so that they cannot follow it
entirely, especially there where the thought is born of love, because
there the Soul searches more deeply than elsewhere. It would be quite
possible for any one to say: Thou dost excuse and accuse thyself all
in one breath, which is a reason for blame, not for escape from blame,
inasmuch as the blame, which is mine, is cast on the intellect and on
the speech; for, if it be good, I ought to be praised for it in so
much as it is so; and if it be defective, I ought to be blamed. To
this it is possible to reply, briefly, that I do not accuse myself,
but that I excuse myself in truth. And therefore it is to be known,