Explore "I' Ho Pien DI Sospir Quest' Aer Tutto" by Francesco Petrarca on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.
To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute, / When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land / Where she was born, who held my life in hand / From its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit: / To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destitute / To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain / These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain / Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute; / There's not a root or stone amongst these hills, / Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades, / Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows, / Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils, / Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades, / But knows how sharp my grief -- how deep my woes.
WROTTESLEY.