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Francesco Petrarch
Francesco Petrarch
When the heavenly body that tells the hours
Glorious pillar in whom rests
If my life of bitter torment and of tears
When from hour to hour among the other ladies
Doth any Maiden Seek The Glorious Fame
As at times in hot sunny weather
Not Ticino, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige or Tiber
No weary helmsman ever fled for harbour
I turn back at every step I take
Grizzled and white the old man leaves
Bitter tears pour down my face
There are creatures in the world with such other
I have offered you my heart a thousand times
The time to labour, for every animal
Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,
Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year,
Heavenly Father, after the lost days,
She let her gold hair scatter in the breeze
A new young angel carried by her wings
The heavens have revolved for seventeen years
That wandering paleness which conceals
Clear, sweet fresh water
Love leads me on, from thought to thought,
What do I feel if this is not love?
I go weeping for my time past,
Petrarch
From ‘Visions’
I have not seen you, lady,
I find no peace, and yet I make no war:
Canzone XVI
Many times now, with my true thought,
If No Love Is, O God, What Fele I So? (Sonnet 102)
My weary eyes, there, while I turn you
Sonnet 131 [I’d sing of Love in such a novel fashion]
From what part of the heavens, from what idea
Now that the sky and the earth and the wind are silent
Full of a wandering thought that separates me
Through the midst of inhospitable, wild woods,
A pure white hind appeared to me
O beautiful hand that clutches my heart
O little room that was once a refuge
Who wishes to see what Nature can achieve
Ah me, the beautiful face, ah me, the gentle look
The high column and the green laurel are broken
Life flies, and never stays an hour,
The eyes I spoke about so warmly,
When I turn again to gaze on the years
Where is the forehead, that could make my heart turn
My thought raised me to a place in which
Zephyr returns and brings fair weather,
That nightingale who weeps so sweetly,
These days of mine, faster than a hind,
My sad verse, go to the harsh stone
The angels elect and the blessed spirits,
Little wandering bird that goes singing
Sonnet 101 [Ways apt and new to sing of love I’d find]
You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
To make a graceful act of revenge,
It was on that day when the sun’s ray
What infinite providence and art
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