Sonnet CXLIV

Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi.

TO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAY.


    Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,
To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,
In one short day has many a stream and shore
Given to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.
Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweet
Where war in earnest strikes, nor tells before--
A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar--
My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;
But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,
Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,
From too great courage conscious terror springs.
But this fair country and belovèd stream
With smiling welcome reassures my heart,
Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Francesco Petrarca, commonly known as Petrarch, was an Italian scholar, poet, and early humanist during the Renaissance. He is often called the "Father of Humanism" and is best known for his Italian poetry, notably the Canzoniere, a collection of poems addressed to his idealized beloved Laura. Petrarch's works have influenced countless writers and helped shape the modern Italian language.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XCVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Canzone XIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LIX.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sonnet CLXI.

L' aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.

JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.


    The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,
And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,
I know; its breathings such impression made,
Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:
My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu
To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;
And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,
I seek this day my cheering sun to view,
Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,
That Love again compels me to its light;
Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.
Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fate
I ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,
When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.

Francesco Petrarca

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 well
Its 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.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XC.

Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio.

THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.


    Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure
(Would I were wholly here and you content),
Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,
Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.
Fain would I tell--for here I feel me sure--
Why lightnings now no fear to me present;
And why unmitigated, much less spent,
E'en as before my fierce desires allure.
Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and saw
Where, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,
Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;
Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,
Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;
What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CXCIV.

I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume.

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.


    I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CCXX.

Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumi.

A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.


    Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,
So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,
And softly from a feeling heart and wise,
Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:
Even the memory serves to wake my sighs
When I recall that day so glad esteem'd,
And in my heart its sinking spirit dies
As some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.
My soul in pain and grief that most has been
(How great the power of constant habit is!)
Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:
For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,
Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,
Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CXLIII.

Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi.

EVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNES.


    Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove,
Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way;
Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,
Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.
Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,
Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:
And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, move
Like nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her play
I seem to hear her, when the whispering gale
Steals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,
When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.
How grateful might this darksome wood appear,
Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;
But, ...

Francesco Petrarca