To His Friend

To thee, Sennuccio! fearless I can paint
The habit of a life that shuns repose:
My heart with its accustom'd passion glows; —
'Tis Laura's yet; — nor strong my hopes, nor faint,
But varied ever — as that lovely Saint
In light or shade my fond attachment throws.
Her delicacy's temper'd sweetness knows
The charm which no mis-construing thought can taint;
Which blames, and yet approves: — to-day , the soft
Endearments reign — the Loves their influence breathe;
To morrow , distant and reserv'd her air —
With Heaven her eye conversing; — " here she oft
Has musing roam'd; here smil'd, or dress'd the wreath."
Her image thus can play with my despair.
Author of original: 
Francesco Petrarch
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