PETRARCH
From the Italian of Carducci
Master Francesco, I have come to thee
And to thy friend, that gentle, fair-haired dame,
To calm my angry spirit and set free
My grim soul by sweet Sorga's crystal stream.
Look! shade and rest I find beneath this tree!
I sit, and to the lonely shore I call;
Thou comest, and a choir encircles thee
Who greet me with a friendly welcome all.
And that sweet choir—they are those songs of thine,
Down whose fair sides their golden tresses fall—
Escaping from the rose-wreaths that entwine
Their gathered folds, in ringlets prodigal;
And one doth shake her locks, and the rebel cry
Breaks from her tuneful lips, 'Rome! Italy!'
