Explore "Quante Fiate Al Mio Dolce Ricetto" by Francesco Petrarca on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.
How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat / From man and from myself I strive to fly, / Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat, / And swelling every blossom with a sigh! / How oft, deep musing on my woes complete, / Along the dark and silent glens I lie, / In thought again that dearest form to meet / By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die! / How oft I see her rising from the tide / Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood; / Or pensive wander by the river's side; / Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood; / Bright as in life; while angel pity throws / O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.
MERIVALE.