|
You who hear within my scattered verse
The troubled sighs on which I fed my heart
In youthful error, now that I in part
Am someone other than I was at first;
For all the varied ways I cry and curse
Amid the empty hope and wasted art,
I ask of you who've suffered by Love's dart
Not only pardon, but pity for my worst.
But now when I reflect how I became
A common tale to all, it brings me grief,
So that I grow ashamed that now it seems
The fruit of all my wandering is shame,
And true repentance, and the clear belief
That what the world adores are fleeting dreams.
|
Petrarch was bestowed with the laurel
wreath as the great poet of his time. |
|
