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Sonnet CXXVIII.
By Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)
O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti.
EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.
O scatter'd steps! O vague and busy thoughts!
O firm-set memory! O fierce desire!
O passion powerful! O failing heart!
O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now!
O leaf, which honourest illustrious brows,
Sole sign of double valour, and best crown!
O painful life, O error oft and sweet!
That make me search the lone plains and hard hills.
O beauteous face! where Love together placed
The spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain,
They prick and turn me so at his sole will.
O gentle amorous souls, if such there be!
And you, O naked spirits of mere dust,
Tarry and see how great my suffering is!
MACGREGOR.
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