Poem 285, 1552-54
The voyage of my life at last has reached,
across a stormy sea, in a fragile boat,
the common port all must pass through, to give
an accounting for every evil and pious deed.
So now I recognize how laden with error
was the affectionate fantasy
that made art an idol and sovereign to me,
like all things men want in spite of their best interests.
What will become of all my thoughts of love,
once gay and foolish, now that I'm nearing two deaths?
I'm certain of one, and the other looms over me.
Neither painting nor sculpture will be able any longer
to calm my soul, now turned toward that divine love
that opened his arms on the cross to take us in.