To Laura In Death. Sonnet XC.

Vago augelletto che cantando vai.

THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROW.


    Poor solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay;
Or haply mournest the sweet season gone:
As chilly night and winter hurry on,
And day-light fades and summer flies away;
If as the cares that swell thy little throat
Thou knew'st alike the woes that wound my rest.
Ah, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred breast,
And mix with mine thy melancholy note.
Yet little know I ours are kindred ills:
She still may live the object of thy song:
Not so for me stern death or Heaven wills!
But the sad season, and less grateful hour,
And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng
Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.

DACRE.


    Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way,
Or else bewailest pleasures that are past;
What time the night draws nigh, and wintry blast;
Leaving behind each merry month, and day;
Oh, couldst thou, as thine own, my state survey,
With the same gloom of misery o'ercast;
Unto my bosom thou mightst surely haste
And, by partaking, my sad griefs allay.
Yet would thy share of woe not equal mine,
Since the loved mate thou weep'st doth haply live,
While death, and heaven, me of my fair deprive:
But hours less gay, the season's drear decline;
With thoughts on many a sad, and pleasant year,
Tempt me to ask thy piteous presence here.

NOTT.

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 XXIV.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet VII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XCI.

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.

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LII.

Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli.

HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.


    I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy
So pleasant, whence my fair her being drew,
Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shew
Wishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.
O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!
Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue;
And void and cheerless is that dwelling too,
In which I live, in which I wish'd to die;
Hoping its mistress might at length afford
Some respite to my woes by plaintive sighs,
And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.
I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord:
While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired;
And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.

NOTT.


    Once more, ye balmy gal...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXV.

Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.

HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.


    Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here
Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains;
And that old debt to clear which still remains,
Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share:
Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,
Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains:
The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,
And all my various chance, my racking care:
Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;
Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue
That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:--
My days were once so fair; now dark and dread
As death that makes them so. Thus the world through
On each as soon as bo...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LX.

Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso.

HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING.


    Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,
Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;
There call on her who answers from yon skies,
Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.
Of life how I am wearied make her know,
Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise:
But, copying all her virtues I so prize,
Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.
I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;
(Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!)
That by the world she should be loved, and known.
Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,
To greet my coming that's not long delay'd;
And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!
...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XII.

Mai non fu' in parte ove sì chiar' vedessi.

VAUCLUSE.


    Nowhere before could I so well have seen
Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view;
Nowhere in so great freedom could have been
Breathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue;
Never with depths of shade so calm and green
A valley found for lover's sigh more true;
Methinks a spot so lovely and serene
Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.
All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I
Like them should love--the clear sky, the calm hour,
Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower--
But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high,
By the sad memory of thine early fate,
Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LIII.

E questo 'l nido in che la mia Fenice.

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.


    Is this the nest in which my phoenix first
Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold,
Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold,
For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?
Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth,
Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.
Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?
Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth;
Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here,
Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd,
To thee which consecrate I still revere.
Watching the hills as dark night gathers round,
Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take,
And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXIII.

Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena.

ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.


    Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries;
Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed;
Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed
Of Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes;
Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs;
Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread;
Hill of delight--though now delight is fled--
To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys;
Well I retain your old unchanging face!
Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng,
Infinite woes their constant mansion find!
Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace,
To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung,
Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!<...

Francesco Petrarca