Sonnet XIII
SONNET XIII.
Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.
HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.
How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreatFrom man and from myself I strive to fly,Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,And swelling every blossom with a sigh!How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,Along the dark and silent glens I lie,In thought again that dearest form to meetBy death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!How oft I see her rising from the tideOf Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;Or pensive wander by the river's side;Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;Bright as in life; while angel pity throwsO'er her fair face the impress of my woes.
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