Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374) (translated by Morris Bishop) Laura She used to let her golden hair fly free For the wind to toy and tangle and molest; Her eyes were brighter than the radiant west. (Seldom they shine now.) I used to see Pity look out of those deep eyes on me. ("It was false pity," you would protest.) I had love's tinder heaped within my breast; What wonder that the flame burned furiously? She did not walk in any mortal way, But with angelic progress; when she spoke, Unearthly voices sang in unison, She seemed divine among the dreary folk Of earth. You say she is not so today? Well, though the bow's unbent, the wound bleeds on.

Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374) (translated by Morris Bishop) Laura She used to let her golden hair fly free For the wind to toy and tangle and molest; Her eyes were brighter than the radiant west. (Seldom they shine now.) I used to see Pity look out of those deep eyes on me. ("It was false pity," you would protest.) I had love's tinder heaped within my breast; What wonder that the flame burned furiously? She did not walk in any mortal way, But with angelic progress; when she spoke, Unearthly voices sang in unison, She seemed divine among the dreary folk Of earth. You say she is not so today? Well, though the bow's unbent, the wound bleeds on.