A SONNET ON THE DEATH OF LAURA by PETRARCH

I FILL with sighs the air whene'er I stand
On yon' high hill, and thence survey the plain,
Where Laura, she who could my heart command,
Did in her Earthly Paradise remain.

For now she's dead, and left me here alone,
Griev'd for her loss, that I could gladly die;
Drowning my eyes in making of my moan,
My tears have left no space about me dry.

There is no stone upon that craggy hill,
Nor these sweet fields an herb or plant do bring,
Nor flower 'mongst all that do the valleys fill,
Nor any drop of water from the spring;

Nor beasts so wild, that in the woods do dwell,
But of my grief for Laura's death can tell.

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