|
|
Sonnet XLV.
By Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)
La guancia che fu già piangendo stanca.
TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.
Thy weary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,
My much loved lord, upon the one repose;
More careful of thyself against Love be,
Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;
And with the other close the left-hand path
Too easy entrance where his message hath;
In sun and storm thyself the same display,
Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.
And, with the third, drink of the precious herb
Which purges every thought that would disturb,
Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:
But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,
So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,
If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.
MACGREGOR.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 291 times.
|
|
