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

in her cold mind a thousand high desires;



I'd see her lovely face transform quite often

her eyes grow wet and more compassionate,

like one who feels regret, when it's too late,

for causing someone's suffering by mistake;



And I'd see scarlet roses in the snows,

tossed by the breeze, discover ivory

that turns to marble those who see it near them;



All this I'd do because I do not mind 

my discontentment in this one short life,

but glory rather in my later fame.

From The Poetry of Petrarch by Petrarch, translated by David Young. Translation copyright © 2004 by David Young. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved.