From Petrarch

The birds piped mournfully ; the dark green leaves
Moved, sweetly trembling, to the summer breeze, —
And deep and low, the lucid rill, that weaves
Its murmuring mazes in the flowery leas,
Warbled along its old monotonies : —
Such blended sounds my reckless ear received,
And hearing, heard not, — while my spirit grieved,
Loving its grief, and feeding its disease.
A mournful strain I conn'd — when she for whom
I vext my soul, because she was conceal'd,

Shone forth on high, to wondering sense reveal'd :—
" Why ever thus," said she, " thy days consume ?
Dying, I live, — and when I closed my eyes
They open'd to the light of Paradise."