Fifteen sonnets of Petrarch

By Francesco Petrarch

"Fifteen sonnets of Petrarch" by Francesco Petrarca (translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson). Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664172716

Francesco Petrarch

Born in Italy in 1304, Francesco Petrarch moved with his family to Provence. Petrarch was smitten by the sight of a young woman named Laura. She did not return his love, but it stayed with Petrarch even after Laura’s early death. Laura inspired the 366 poems that make up his Canzoniere, translated here as ‘Scattered Rhymes’. Petrarch lived till 1374, and was writing and revising his sonnets into his last years.

Book preview

Francesco Petrarca

Fifteen sonnets of Petrarch

Published by Good Press, 2019

[e-mail]

EAN 4057664172716

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

NOTE

INTRODUCTION

SONNETS

I

I

II

II

III

III

IV

IV

V

V

VI

VI

VII

VII

VIII

VIII

IX

IX

X

X

XI

XI

XII

XII

XIII

XIII

XIV

XIV

XV

XV

INTRODUCTION

Table of Contents

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NOTE

Table of Contents

This introduction is based essentially upon a paper ‘Sunshine and Petrarch’ which originally included most of the sonnets in this volume. It was written at Newport, R.I., where the translator was then residing.

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INTRODUCTION

Table of Contents

decorative N

Near my summer home there is a little cove or landing by the bay, where nothing larger than a boat can ever anchor. I sit above it now, upon the steep bank, knee-deep in buttercups, and amid grass so lush and green that it seems to ripple and flow instead of waving. Below lies a tiny beach, strewn with a few bits of driftwood and some purple shells, and so sheltered by projecting walls that its wavelets plash but lightly. A little farther out the sea breaks more roughly over submerged rocks, and the waves lift themselves, before breaking, in an indescribable way, as if each gave a glimpse through a translucent window, beyond which all ocean’s depths might be clearly seen, could one but hit the proper angle of vision. On the