To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXIX.

Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno.

HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.


    Dear precious pledge, by Nature snatch'd away,
But yet reserved for me in realms undying;
O thou on whom my life is aye relying,
Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray?
Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes convey
Sweet visions, worthy thee;--why is my sighing
Unheeded now?--who keeps thee from replying?
Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay:
Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain
To feed and banquet on another's woe
(Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain),
But thou, who seest through me, and dost know
All that I feel,--thou, who canst soothe my pain,
Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.

WROTTESLEY.

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

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXIX.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CLXXXIV.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CLXXVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXX.

Deh qual pietà, qual angel fu sì presto.

HIS PRAYER IS HEARD.


    What angel of compassion, hovering near,
Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,
Whence now I feel descending as of yore
My lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,
My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,
So free from pride, of humbleness such store,
In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door,
I live, and life no more is dull and drear.
Blessèd is she who so can others bless
With her fair sight, or with that tender speech
To whose full meaning love alone can reach.
"Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress;
But for our good I did thy homage shun"--
In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

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 XVIII.

Se quell' aura soave de' sospiri.

SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.


    If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above,
I hear of her so long my lady here,
Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,
To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,
I could but paint, my passionate verse should move
Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear
O'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,
That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove.
She points the path on high: and I who know
Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,
In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,
Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there:
And find such sweetness in her words alone
As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXII.

Ripensando a quel ch' oggi il ciel onora.

HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.


    To that soft look which now adorns the skies,
The graceful bending of the radiant head,
The face, the sweet angelic accents fled,
That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs
Oh! when to these imagination flies,
I wonder that I am not long since dead!
'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly tread
Is round my couch when morning visions rise!
In every attitude how holy, chaste!
How tenderly she seems to hear the tale
Of my long woes, and their relief to seek!
But when day breaks she then appears in haste
The well-known heavenward path again to scale,
With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!

MOREHEAD.
...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXI.

Ov' è la fronte che con picciol cenno.

HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.


    Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led
My raptured heart at will, now here, now there?
Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,
Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?
Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?
The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?
Where, group'd in one rich form, the beauties rare,
Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?
Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess
My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,
And all my thoughts their constant record found?
Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?--
Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes
(Of her pure light bereft) which a...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXI.

Del cibo onde 'l signor mio sempre abbonda.

HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA.


    Food wherewithal my lord is well supplied,
With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed;
As fears within and paleness o'er me spread,
Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide:
But in her time with whom no other vied,
Equal or second, to my suffering bed
Comes she to look on whom I almost dread,
And takes her seat in pity by my side.
With that fair hand, so long desired in vain,
She check'd my tears, while at her accents crept
A sweetness to my soul, intense, divine.
"Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain?
No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept?
Would that such life were thine as death is mine!"

MACGREGOR.


    With grief and t...

Francesco Petrarca