Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXXVI. Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desvia. HIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSION. Such vain thought as wonted to mislead meIn desert hope, by well-assurèd moan,Makes me from company to live alone,In following her whom reason bids me flee.She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;And after her my heart would fain be gone,But armèd sighs my way do stop anon,'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;Yet as I guess, under disdainful browOne beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:And therewithal bolded I seek the way howTo utter the smart I suffer within;But such it is, I not how to begin. Wyatt. Full of a tender thought, which severs meFrom all my kind, a lonely musing thing,From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,[Pg 160]That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring,The fair antagonist of Love and me.Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!But when my simple hope I would disclose,My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXVII. Amor ed io sì pien di maraviglia. HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE. As one who sees a thing incredible,In mutual marvel Love and I combine,Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine,None but herself can be her parallel.[Pg 154]Where the fine arches of that fair brow swellSo sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine,Than whom no safer brighter beacons shineHis course to guide who'd wisely love and well.What miracle is this, when, as a flower,She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast,Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'dAnd oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour,To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there,Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XCIII. Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza. WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA. O'erflowing with the sweets ineffable,Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew,What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.On meaner beauty never more to dwell,Whom most I love I left: my mind so wellIts part, to muse on her, is train'd to do,None else it sees; what is not hers to view,As of old wont, with loathing I repel.In a low valley shut from all around,Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs,Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone:Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found,And of that day blest images arise,Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
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. Wrottesley.
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