Now, for that every stroke excels the more
      The closer to the forge it still ascend,
      Her soul that quickened mine hath sought the skies: 
    Wherefore I find my toil will never end,
      If God, the great artificer, denies
      That tool which was my only aid before.

The next is peculiarly valuable, as proving with what intense and religious fervour Michael Angelo addressed himself to the worship of intellectual beauty.  He alone, in that age of sensuality and animalism, pierced through the form of flesh and sought the divine idea it imprisoned:[423]—­

PER RITORNAR LA

    As one who will reseek her home of light,
      Thy form immortal to this prison-house
      Descended, like an angel piteous,
    To heal all hearts and make the whole world bright. 
    ’Tis this that thralls my heart in love’s delight,
      Not thy clear face of beauty glorious;
      For he who harbours virtue, still will choose
    To love what neither years nor death can blight.

    So fares it ever with things high and rare,
      Wrought in the sweat of nature; heaven above
      Showers on their birth the blessings of her prime;
    Nor hath God deigned to show Himself elsewhere
      More clearly than in human forms sublime;
      Which, since they image Him, compel my love.

The same Platonic theme is slightly varied in the two following sonnets:[424]—­

SPIRTO BEN NATO

    Choice soul, in whom, as in a glass, we see,
      Mirrored in thy pure form and delicate,
      What beauties heaven and nature can create,
    The paragon of all their works to be! 
    Fair soul, in whom love, pity, piety,
      Have found a home, as from thy outward state
      We clearly read, and are so rare and great
    That they adorn none other like to thee!

    Love takes me captive; beauty binds my soul;
      Pity and mercy with their gentle eyes
      Wake in my heart a hope that cannot cheat. 
    What law, what destiny, what fell control,
      What cruelty, or late or soon, denies
      That death should spare perfection so complete?

DAI DOLCE PIANTO

    From sweet laments to bitter joys, from peace
      Eternal to a brief and hollow truce,
      How have I fallen!—­when ’tis truth we lose,
    Mere sense survives our reason’s dear decease. 
    I know not if my heart bred this disease,
      That still more pleasing grows with growing use;
      Or else thy face, thine eyes, in which the hues
    And fires of Paradise dart ecstasies.

    Thy beauty is no mortal thing; ’twas sent
      From heaven on high to make our earth divine: 
      Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I’m content;
    For in thy sight what could I do but pine? 
      If God Himself thus rules my destiny,
      Who, when I die, can lay the blame on thee?