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Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade Measuring I roam with lingering steps and slow; And still a watchful glance around me throw, Anxious to shun the print of human tread: No other means I find, no surer aid From the world's prying eye to hide my woe: So well my wild disordered gestures show, And love-lorn looks, the fire within me bred, That well I think each mountain, wood and plain, And river knows, what I from man conceal, What dreary hues my life's fool chances dim. Yet whatever wild or savage paths I've taken, Wherever I wander, love attends me still, Soft whispering to my soul, and I to him. Francesco Petrarca Translated by Anon. 1795 |
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