Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
A Prayer of Petrarcke and of LauraAnonymous
W
Are gently moving in the summer air,
Or the clear water as it bubbling flows
Is heard from flowery banks, surpassing fair:
There while I sit with pensive Love, and write
Of her, who lost to earth, yet lives on high,
I pause, and listen if I hear aright
From so far, any answer to my sigh:—
Yes! ’tis that well-known voice that fills mine ear,
And says, ‘Why waste the life which dear I deemed?
Why flows unceasingly that bitter tear?
For me weep not—I, when Death’s blow was given,
Immortal grew; and when to you they seemed
For ever closed, these eyes awoke in Heaven.’