Sonnet VI

The eyes of which I spoke so warmly, the hands,
the shoulders and the ankles and the face,
that separated me from my Self's space,
and marked me out from every other man:
the lovely waving hair of shining gold,
the loving light of that angelic smile,
that made a paradise on earth a while,
are dust, a little dust, senseless and grown cold.
And I, I live (for which I despise myself),
and am saddened, left without the light I loved,
in a damaged boat, in a great storm's madness.
Now, make an end to the songs of the loving Self.
The veins are dry where creation's blood once moved,
and Poetry turned to eternal sadness.

Francesco Petrarca


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2010 Selected Poetry
The Poets Garret
Tir Na nOg Poetry Community