Sonnet XCVI.

Quelle pietose rime, in ch' io m' accorsi.

TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH'S SUPPOSED DEATH.


    Those pious lines wherein are finely met
Proofs of high genius and a spirit kind,
Had so much influence on my grateful mind
That instantly in hand my pen I set
To tell you that death's final blow--which yet
Shall me and every mortal surely find--
I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join'd
The confines of his realm without regret;
But I turn'd back again because I read
Writ o'er the threshold that the time to me
Of life predestinate not all was fled,
Though its last day and hour I could not see.
Then once more let your sad heart comfort know,
And love the living worth which dead it honour'd so.

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 CCXXVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Ballata VI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXIV.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XLII.

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 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 CLXXXI.

Già desiai con sì giusta querela.

HE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTAL.


    Erewhile I labour'd with complaint so true,
And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard,
Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'd
In the hard heart which frost in summer knew.
Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew,
Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word
Or low'ring still she others' blame incurr'd
Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew
No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;
I wish not this--that passes power of mine:
Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.
But I shall ever sing her charms divine,
That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,
The world may know how sweet to me was death.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XXXII.

S' amore o morte non dà qualche stroppio.

HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.


    If Love or Death no obstacle entwine
With the new web which here my fingers fold,
And if I 'scape from beauty's tyrant hold
While natural truth with truth reveal'd I join,
Perchance a work so double will be mine
Between our modern style and language old,
That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold)
Even to Rome its growing fame may shine:
But, since, our labour to perfèct at last
Some of the blessed threads are absent yet
Which our dear father plentifully met,
Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fast
Against their use? Be prompt of aid and free,
And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CX.

Come talora al caldo tempo suole.

HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.


    As when at times in summer's scorching heats.
Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,
As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,
Whence death the one and pain the other meets,
Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,
Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness lies
That reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,
And by strong will is better judgment beat.
I clearly see they value me but ill,
And, for against their torture fails my strength.
That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:
But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,
My heart their pain and not my loss laments,
And blind, to its own death my soul consents.

...

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XXIX.

S' io credessi per morte essere scarco.

HE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAIN.


    Had I believed that Death could set me free
From the anxious amorous thoughts my peace that mar,
With these my own hands which yet stainless are,
Life had I loosed, long hateful grown to me.
Yet, for I fear 'twould but a passage be
From grief to grief, from old to other war,
Hither the dark shades my escape that bar,
I still remain, nor hope relief to see.
High time it surely is that he had sped
The fatal arrow from his pitiless bow,
In others' blood so often bathed and red;
And I of Love and Death have pray'd it so--
He listens not, but leaves me here half dead.
Nor cares to call me to himself below.

MACGREGOR.


    Oh! had I deem'd that...

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet LIX.

Se al principio risponde il fine e 'l mezzo.

IF HIS PASSION STILL INCREASE, HE MUST SOON DIE.


    If, of this fourteenth year wherein I sigh,
The end and middle with its opening vie,
Nor air nor shade can give me now release,
I feel mine ardent passion so increase:
For Love, with whom my thought no medium knows,
Beneath whose yoke I never find repose,
So rules me through these eyes, on mine own ill
Too often turn'd, but half remains to kill.
Thus, day by day, I feel me sink apace,
And yet so secretly none else may trace,
Save she whose glances my fond bosom tear.
Scarcely till now this load of life I bear
Nor know how long with me will be her stay,
For death draws near, and hastens life away.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca