Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374)

Translated by Thomas Russell

IF, here reclining while I weep my woes,

The turtle near me tells her plaintive tale,

Or headlong brook with warbling murmur flows,

Or green leaves rustle to the sighing gale,—

In each low sound, that makes these rocks reply,

I seem my Laura’s long-lost voice to hear,

And oft, bright beaming on my raptured eye,

Her charms more lovely than in life appear;

A Naiad oft, emerging from the flood,

Graceful she seems to tread the dimpling wave,

Oft glides along, a Goddess of the wood,

Oft sits, the Nymph of this sequestered cave,

Oft mounting beckons from a cloud of light,

Till Heaven at length receives her from my sight.