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I go weeping for my past time
which I spent in loving a mortal thing
without lifting myself in flight,
though I had wings to make of myself
perhaps not a base example.
You who see all my unworthy and wicked sufferings;
invisible, immortal King of Heaven: help my strayed
frail soul and help fill out with your grace
all that she lacks, so that, though I have lived
in war and in storm, I may die
in peace and in port.
--Petrarch

What file's incessant bite
left this old hide so shrunken, frayed away,
my poor sick soul? When is it due, the day
that sloughs it off, and heaven receives you, where
in primal joy and light
you lived, unvexed by the perilous flesh you wear?
Though I change hide and hair
with little life ahead,
no way to change behavior long engrained,
cramping me all the more as years go by.
I'm envious, Love, I swear
(why hide it?) of the dead,
a panicky muddle-head,
my soul in terror of its sensual tie.
Lord, as the last hours fly,
stretch out in mercy your two arms; make me
less what I've been, more what you'd have me be.
Michelangelo, Poem 161 to Vittoria Colonna.





I have no friending policy per say - sometimes I prune the flist, sometimes I add recklessly. It's rarely a comment on anything but my free time. Please feel free to friend me or unfriend me as you wish - I promise not to take it amiss.

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