La vita fugge e non s’arresta un’ora
e la morte vien dietro a gran giornate
e le cose presenti e le passate
mi danno guerra, e le future ancora;

e’l rimembrare e l’aspettar m’accora
or quinci or quindi, sì che’n veritate,
se non ch’i’ ò di me stesso pietate
i’ sarei già di questi pensier fora.

Tormani avanti s’alcun dolci mai
ebbe’l cor tristo, e poi da l’altra parte
veggio al mio navigar turbati i venti:

veggio fortuna in porto, e stanco omai
il mio nocchier, e rotte arbore e sarte,
e i lumi bei che mirar soglio, spenti.

Life flees before, not stopping on the way,
and death with rapid journey follows fast,
and all things present join with all things past,
and with the future, to make war on me;

forethought and memory bring such dismay,
now one and now the other, that at last,
but for the piety that holds me fast,
I would already from such thoughts be free.

If any joy has lightened this sad heart,
it now returns to mind; then all around
I see the winds against my sailing bent:

I see a storm in port, and, tired out,
my pilot there, the mast and rigging down,
and the fair stars I contemplated, spent.