To Laura In Death. Sonnet LVIII.

A poem by Francesco Petrarca

O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento.


O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last,
O stars conspired to make me poor indeed!
O look too true, in which I seem'd to read.
At parting, that my happiness was past;
Now my full loss I know, I feel at last:
Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!)
'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead,
Was there a hope that flew not with the blast?
For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'd
That the sweet light of all my life should die:
'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye!
But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd;
Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd,
That I might sink in sudden misery!


Dark hour, last moment of that fatal day!
Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined!
O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to say
Farewell to me, farewell to peace of mind!
Awaken'd now, my losses I survey:
Alas! I fondly thought--thoughts weak and blind!--
That absence would take part, not all, away;
How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind.
Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise,
To quench for ever my life's genial light,
And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.
Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes,
That blinded me to all before my sight,
And sank at once my life in deepest woe.


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