Sonnet XCIV.

Se 'l sasso ond' è più chiusa questa valle.

COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.


    If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,
From which its present name we closely trace,
Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown
Its back to Babel and to Rome its face;
Then had my sighs a better pathway known
To where their hope is yet in life and grace:
They now go singly, yet my voice all own;
And, where I send, not one but finds its place.
There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet
They ever find, that none returns again,
But still delightedly with her remain.
My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet--
Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see--
Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.

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 XXXVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CLXX.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LVIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Ballata V.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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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 XXX.

Orso, e' non furon mai fiumi nè stagni.

HE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYES.


    Orso, my friend, was never stream, nor lake,
Nor sea in whose broad lap all rivers fall,
Nor shadow of high hill, or wood, or wall,
Nor heaven-obscuring clouds which torrents make,
Nor other obstacles my grief so wake,
Whatever most that lovely face may pall,
As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,
That veil which bids my heart "Now burn or break,"
And, whether by humility or pride,
Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,
Conducts me prematurely to my tomb:
Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,
Cunning and careful ever to annoy,
'Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet LXXIV.

Così potess' io ben chiuder in versi.

HE COMPLAINS THAT TO HIM ALONE IS FAITH HURTFUL.


    Could I, in melting verse, my thoughts but throw,
As in my heart their living load I bear,
No soul so cruel in the world was e'er
That would not at the tale with pity glow.
But ye, blest eyes, which dealt me the sore blow,
'Gainst which nor helm nor shield avail'd to spare
Within, without, behold me poor and bare,
Though never in laments is breathed my woe.
But since on me your bright glance ever shines,
E'en as a sunbeam through transparent glass,
Suffice then the desire without the lines.
Faith Peter bless'd and Mary, but, alas!
It proves an enemy to me alone,
Whose spirit save by you to none is known.

MACGREGOR.

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 CCXXI.

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.

THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.


    Still have I sought a life of solitude;
The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;
That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,
Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:
Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,
These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,
Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;
And sing and weep in concert with its flood.
But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,
Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see
Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:
Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,
For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;
Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.

NOTT.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CCIV.

Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago.

HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HER.


P.    Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!
        Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to take
        Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart;
        Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:
        Return alone--I love to be apart--
        Try, if perchance the day will ever break
        To mitigate our still increasing smart,
        Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.
H. O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,
        Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,
        Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?
        When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,
        ...

Francesco Petrarca