To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXVII.

Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.


    My thoughts in fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents delay:
E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate
This present life of her fair being reft,
From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:
No other hope than this to me is left.
O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!
O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!
Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.
Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,
Who to the world so eminent and clear
Made her great virtue and my passion here.

MACGREGOR.


    My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweet
To meditate their object in my breast--
Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meet
With gentlest pity, seeing me distress'd:
Nor when removed to that her sacred rest
The present life changed for that blest retreat,
Vanish'd in air my former visions fleet,
My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address'd.
O lovely miracle! O favour'd mind!
Beauty beyond example high and rare,
So soon return'd from us to whence it came!
There the immortal wreaths her temples bind;
The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fair
Who shone by her own virtues and my flame.

CAPEL LOFFT.

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 LXI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CCXVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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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 XXI.

L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.


    My noble flame--more fair than fairest are
Whom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown--
Before her time, alas for me! has flown
To her celestial home and parent star.
I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar
She placed on passion 'twas for good alone,
As, with a gentle coldness all her own,
She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war.
My thanks on her for such wise care I press,
That with her lovely face and sweet disdain
She check'd my love and taught me peace to gain.
O graceful artifice! deserved success!
I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she,
Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXIX.

Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte.

THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.


    Two mortal foes in one fair breast combined,
Beauty and Virtue, in such peace allied
That ne'er rebellion ruffled that pure mind,
But in rare union dwelt they side by side;
By Death they now are shatter'd and disjoin'd;
One is in heaven, its glory and its pride,
One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind,
Whence stings of love once issued far and wide.
That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,
Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance
Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,
Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,
I hope her fair and graceful name perchance
To consecrate with this worn weary quill.

MACGREG...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXII.

Come va 'l mondo! or mi diletta e piace.

HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.


    How goes the world! now please me and delight
What most displeased me: now I see and feel
My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal,
That peace eternal should brief war requite.
O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight,
In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal!
Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal
Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave's dark night.
But blind love and my dull mind so misled,
I sought to trespass even by main force
Where to have won my precious soul were dead.
Blessèd be she who shaped mine erring course
To better port, by turns who curb'd and lured
My bold and passionate will where safety was secured.

MACGREGOR.


...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXXVIII.

Spirto felice, che sì dolcemente.

BEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTURE.


    Blest spirit, that with beams so sweetly clear
Those eyes didst bend on me, than stars more bright,
And sighs didst breathe, and words which could delight
Despair; and which in fancy still I hear;--
I see thee now, radiant from thy pure sphere
O'er the soft grass, and violet's purple light,
Move, as an angel to my wondering sight;
More present than earth gave thee to appear.
Yet to the Cause Supreme thou art return'd:
And left, here to dissolve, that beauteous veil
In which indulgent Heaven invested thee.
Th' impoverish'd world at thy departure mourn'd:
For love departed, and the sun grew pale,
And de...

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