Written by
James Joyce |
A birdless heaven, seadusk, one lone star
Piercing the west,
As thou, fond heart, love's time, so faint, so far,
Rememberest.
The clear young eyes' soft look, the candid brow,
The fragrant hair,
Falling as through the silence falleth now
Dusk of the air.
Why then, remembering those shy
Sweet lures, repine
When the dear love she yielded with a sigh
Was all but thine?
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXX. Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando. HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM. Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest,My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,Painful prerogative of lover's woe!In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things belowMost miserable I; for Cupid's bowHas banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to mornAnd eve to eve succeeds, of death I view(So should this life be named) one-half gone by—Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;That she, my friend, so tender and so true,Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny. Wrangham.
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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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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XVI. Quand' io son tutto volto in quella parte. HE FLIES, BUT PASSION PURSUES HIM. When I reflect and turn me to that partWhence my sweet lady beam'd in purest light,And in my inmost thought remains that lightWhich burns me and consumes in every part,I, who yet dread lest from my heart it partAnd see at hand the end of this my light,Go lonely, like a man deprived of light,Ignorant where to go; whence to depart.Thus flee I from the stroke which lays me dead,Yet flee not with such speed but that desireFollows, companion of my flight alone.Silent I go:—but these my words, though dead,Others would cause to weep—this I desire,That I may weep and waste myself alone. Capel Lofft. When all my mind I turn to the one partWhere sheds my lady's face its beauteous light,And lingers in my loving thought the lightThat burns and racks within me ev'ry part,I from my heart who fear that it may part,And see the near end of my single light,Go, as a blind man, groping without light,Who knows not where yet presses to depart.Thus from the blows which ever wish me deadI flee, but not so swiftly that desireCeases to come, as is its wont, with me.[Pg 16]Silent I move: for accents of the deadWould melt the general age: and I desireThat sighs and tears should only fall from me. Macgregor.
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