Thursday, July 26, 2007

Gli Occhi Di Ch' Io Parlai

Those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose,
The arms, hands, feet
, the beauty that erewhile
Could my ow
n soul from its own self beguile,
And in a separate
world of dreams enclose,
The hair's bri
ght tresses, full of golden glows,
And the soft l
ightning of the angelic smile
That chan
ged this earth to some celestial isle,
Are now bu
t dust, poor dust, that nothing knows.
And yet I live
! Myself I grieve and scorn,
Left dark without the light I loved in vain,
Adrift in temp
est on a bark forlorn;
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) (1304-1374)

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