To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXII.

Vidi fra mille donne una già tale.

BEAUTY SHOWED ITSELF IN, AND DISAPPEARED WITH, LAURA.


    'Mid many fair one such by me was seen
That amorous fears my heart did instant seize,
Beholding her--nor false the images--
Equal to angels in her heavenly mien.
Nothing in her was mortal or terrene,
As one whom nothing short of heaven can please;
My soul well train'd for her to burn and freeze
Sought in her wake to mount the blue serene.
But ah! too high for earthly wings to rise
Her pitch, and soon she wholly pass'd from sight:
The very thought still makes me cold and numb;
O beautiful and high and lustrous eyes,
Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright,
Found entrance in so fair a form to come.

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 XXVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXCIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CCII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet IX.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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To Laura In Death. Sonnet LIX.

Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo.

HE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL LUSTRE OF HER EYES.


    That glance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet,
Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh;
For here no more thou'lt see me, till on high
From earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet."
O intellect than forest pard more fleet!
Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry,
How didst thou fail to see in her bright eye
What since befell, whence I my ruin meet.
Silently shining with a fire sublime,
They said, "O friendly lights, which long have been
Mirrors to us where gladly we were seen,
Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time;
Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond,
But wills in your despite that you shall live ...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLIX.

Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore.

DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.


    From life's long storm of trouble and of tears
Love show'd a tranquil haven and fair end
'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend,
That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers.
She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears,
And its high faith which could no more offend;
Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rend
In so few hours the fruit of many years!
A longer life the time had surely brought
When in her chaste ear my full heart had laid
The ancient burthen of its dearest thought;
And she, perchance, might then have answer made,
Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and few
Our locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue....

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LI.

I dì miei più leggier che nessun cervo.

HIS PASSION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.


    My days more swiftly than the forest hind
Have fled like shadows, and no pleasure seen
Save for a moment, and few hours serene,
Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind.
O wretched world, unstable, wayward! Blind
Whose hopes in thee alone have centred been;
In thee my heart was captived by her mien
Who bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd:
Her better spirit, now a deathless flower,
And in the highest heaven that still shall be,
Each day inflames me with its beauties more.
Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour,
I muse on her--Now what, and where is she,
And what the lovely veil which here she wore?

MACGREGOR....

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXVIII.

Conobbi, quanto il ciel gli occhi m' aperse.

HER PRAISES ARE, COMPARED WITH HER DESERTS, BUT AS A DROP TO THE OCEAN.


    So far as to mine eyes its light heaven show'd,
So far as love and study train'd my wings,
Novel and beautiful but mortal things
From every star I found on her bestow'd:
So many forms in rare and varied mode
Of heavenly beauty from immortal springs
My panting intellect before me brings,
Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load.
Hence, whatsoe'er I spoke of her or wrote,
Who, at God's right, returns me now her prayers,
Is in that infinite abyss a mote:
For style beyond the genius never dares;
Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight,
He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet VIII.

Poichè la vista angelica serena.

WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.


    Since her calm angel face, long beauty's fane,
My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throws
In darkest horrors and in deepest woes,
I seek by uttering to allay my pain.
Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain:
This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;
No other remedy my poor heart knows
Against the troubles that in life obtain.
Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind,
And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face
Now hidest from me in thy close embrace;
Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,
Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,
Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLI.

L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostri.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.


    The wonder, high and new, that, in our days,
Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,
Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch again
Better to blazon its own starry ways;
That to far times I her should paint and praise
Love wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;
But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain
To the fond task a thousand times he sways.
My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;
I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,
Or speak or write of love will prove it so.
Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,
Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,
Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca