O night, O sweet though sombre span of time!—­
      All things find rest upon their journey’s end—­
      Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apprehend;
    And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom’s prime. 
    Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime,
      For dews and darkness are of peace the friend;
      Often by thee in dreams upborne I wend
    From earth to heaven, where yet I hope to climb.

    Thou shade of Death, through whom the soul at length
      Shuns pain and sadness hostile to the heart,
      Whom mourners find their last and sure relief! 
    Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength,
      Driest our tears, assuagest every smart,
      Purging the spirits of the pure from grief.

The religious sonnets have been reserved to the last.  These were composed in old age, when the early impressions of Savonarola’s teaching revived, and when Michael Angelo had grown to regard even his art and the beauty he had loved go purely, as a snare.  If we did not bear in mind the piety expressed throughout his correspondence, their ascetic tone, and the remorse they seem to indicate, would convey a painful sense of cheerlessness and disappointment.  As it is, they strike me as the natural utterance of a profoundly devout and somewhat melancholy man, in whom religion has survived all other interests, and who, reviewing his past life of fame and toil, finds that the sole reality is God.  The two first of these compositions are addressed to Giorgio Vasari.[434]

GIUNIO E GIA

    Now hath my life across a stormy sea
      Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all
      Are bidden ere the final judgment fall,
    Of good or evil deeds to pay the fee. 
    Now know I well how that fond phantasy
      Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall
      Of earthly art, is vain; how criminal
    Is that which all men seek unwillingly.

    Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed,
      What are they when the double death is nigh? 
      The one I know for sure, the other dread. 
    Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest
      My soul that turns to His great love on high,
      Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread.

LE FAVOLE DEL MONDO

    The fables of the world have filched away
      The time I had for thinking upon God;
      His grace lies buried deep ’neath oblivion’s sod,
    Whence springs an evil-crop of sins alway. 
    What makes another wise, leads me astray,
      Slow to discern the bad path I have trod: 
      Hope fades; but still desire ascends that God
    May free me from self-love, my sure decay.

    Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth? 
      Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise,
      Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage: 
    Teach me to hate the world so little worth,
      And all the lovely things I once did prize;
      That endless life, not death, may be my wage.