From Petrarch

When, lost in gloom impervious to the day,
I feel the poison'd shaft my senses burn, —
To that blest region, panting, I return,
Where first I saw the fiery lustre play
That smote my heart with Love's aethereal ray:
There — as to morn the shades of darkness turn
With glitt'ring skirts, bright Visions I discern,
That cheer my hope deferr'd, and ling'ring way: —
There — every gale, perfum'd by Laura's breath,
Bears on its gentle plume the aweful sound
Of Music, that of no terrestrial came,
But of some hallow'd Spirit, who from death
Calls me to Paradise, with myrtle crown'd,
And conscious of the heaven-descended flame.
Author of original: 
Francesco Petrarch
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.