Biography of Francesco Petrarch
Francesco Petrarca (Italian pronunciation: [franˈtʃesko peˈtrarka]; July 20, 1304 – July 19, 1374), commonly anglicized as Petrarch (/ˈpiːtrɑːrk, ˈpɛtrɑːrk/), was an Italian scholar and poet in Renaissance Italy, and one of the earliest humanists. Petrarch's rediscovery of Cicero's letters is often credited for initiating the 14th-century Renaissance. Petrarch is often called the "Father of Humanism". In the 16th century, Pietro Bembo created the model for the modern Italian language based on Petrarch's works, as well as those of Giovanni Boccaccio, and, to a lesser extent, Dante Alighieri. Petrarch would be later endorsed as a model for Italian style by the Accademia della Crusca. Petrarch's sonnets were admired and imitated throughout Europe during the Renaissance and became a model for lyrical poetry. He is also known for being the first to develop the concept of the "Dark Ages." This standing back from his time was possible because he straddled two worlds - the classical and his own modern day.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Francesco Petrarch; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Francesco Petrarch Poems
Diana was never more pleasing to her lover, when, by a stroke of fate, he saw her naked, shown in the deep pool of icy water, than I was by the mountain shepherdess,
Being one day at my window all alone, So manie strange things happened me to see, As much as it grieveth me to thinke thereon. At my right hand a hynde appear'd to mee,
I have not seen you, lady,
I have not seen you, lady, leave off your veil in sun or shadow, since you knew that great desire in myself
I go weeping for my time past,
I go weeping for my time past, that I spent in loving something mortal, without lifting myself in flight, for I had wings
O my own Italy! though words are vain The mortal wounds to close, Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
If No Love Is, O God, What Fele I So? (S...
If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo? If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,
What do I feel if this is not love?
What do I feel if this is not love? But if it is love, God, what thing is this? If good, why this effect: bitter, mortal?
I find no peace, and yet I make no war:
I find no peace, and yet I make no war: and fear, and hope: and burn, and I am ice: and fly above the sky, and fall to earth,
Sonnet 131 [I'd sing of Love in such a n...
I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion that from her cruel side I would draw by force a thousand sighs a day, kindling again
To make a graceful act of revenge,
To make a graceful act of revenge, and punish a thousand wrongs in a single day, Love secretly took up his bow again,
You who hear the sound, in scattered rhy...
You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes, of those sighs on which I fed my heart, in my first vagrant youthfulness,
Sonnet 101 [Ways apt and new to sing of ...
Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find, Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh, And re-enkindle in her frozen mind
When I utter sighs, in calling out to yo...
When I utter sighs, in calling out to you, with the name that Love wrote on my heart, the sound of its first sweet accents begin
What infinite providence and art
What infinite providence and art He showed in his wonderful mastery, who created this and the other hemisphere,
Clear, sweet fresh water
‘Chiare, fresche et dolci acque,'
Clear, sweet fresh water
where she, the only one who seemed
woman to me, rested her beautiful limbs:
gentle branch where it pleased her
(with sighs, I remember it)
to make a pillar for her lovely flank:
grass and flowers which her dress