Petrarch! I would that there might be
In this thy household sanctuary
No visible monument of thee:
The Fount that whilom played before thee,
The Roof that rose in shelter o'er thee,
The low fair Hills that still adore thee,--
I would no more; thy memory
Must loathe all cold reality,
Thought--worship only is for thee.
They say thy Tomb lies there below;
What want I with the marble show?
I am content,--I will not go:
For though by Poesy's high grace
Thou saw'st, in thy calm resting--place,
God, Love, and Nature face to face;
Yet now that thou art wholly free,
How can it give delight to see
That sign of thy captivity?