Explore "Io Son Gia Stanco DI Pensar Siccome" by Francesco Petrarca on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
HE WONDERS AT HIS LONG ENDURANCE OF SUCH TOIL AND SUFFERING.
I weary me alway with questions keen / How, why my thoughts ne'er turn from you away, / Wherefore in life they still prefer to stay, / When they might flee this sad and painful scene, / And how of the fine hair, the lovely mien, / Of the bright eyes which all my feelings sway, / Calling on your dear name by night and day, / My tongue ne'er silent in their praise has been, / And how my feet not tender are, nor tired, / Pursuing still with many a useless pace / Of your fair footsteps the elastic trace; / And whence the ink, the paper whence acquired, / Fill'd with your memories: if in this I err, / Not art's defect but Love's own fault it were.
MACGREGOR.