Through the heart of the wild and inhospitable woods,
where even men with weapons travel riskily,
I go in safety since nothing troubles me
but the Sun, whose living rays are kindled by Love.
And I go singing (how foolish the thoughts that stir!)
of her, from whom heaven cannot separate me,
who fills my eyes: I see her here among women,
and young girls: and they are all beeches and fir!
I seem to hear her, and not the branches and breeze,
or the leaves and the birds, sounding in the glade,
or the waters murmuring in the roots of grass.
Rarely did silence and solitariness please
so much, or sublimity of woodland shade,
except, that too much of my bright Sun is lost.
Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374)
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