From Petrarch

Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.

The birds piped mournfully; the dark green leaves
Moved, sweetly trembling, to the summer breeze, —
And deep and low, the lucid rill, that weaves
Its murmuring mazes in the flowery leas,
Warbled along its old monotonies: —
Such blended sounds my reckless ear received,
And hearing, heard not, — while my spirit grieved,
Loving its grief, and feeding its disease.
A mournful strain I conn'd — when she for whom
I vext my soul, because she was conceal'd,
Shone forth on high, to wondering sense reveal'd: —
" Why ever thus, " said she, " thy days consume?
Dying, I live, — and when I closed my eyes
They open'd to the light of Paradise. "
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