Sonnet XX
SONNET XX.
I' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tutto.
VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.
To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute,When from rude rocks, I view the smiling landWhere she was born, who held my life in handFrom its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit:To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destituteTo mourn her loss, and cast around in painThese wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vainWhere'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,But knows how sharp my grief—how deep my woes.