Classic Poem

(a Translation) of Petrarch

If grief dismiss me not to them that rest
Till the grey morn of age those starry fires
Unwatched extinguish, till the young desires
Forget those vermeil lips, that rising breast,
That cheek, those auburn locks which now exceed
The breathing woodbine's hues, till Time efface
With hand remorseless every angel grace
That bad[e] concealment on my spirit feed;
Haply my bolder tongue may then reveal
The prison annals of a life of tears;
And if the chill time on the softer joys
Smile not, a broken heart perchance may feel
Sad solace from the unforbidden sighs
Heaved for the fruitless lapse of vernal years.