No prey, no politics?

   Staten
   Island

and when the shepherd sees the gorgeous rays
of that great planet sinking toward its nest
and all the eastern pastures growing dark,





he rises to his feet and 
leaves the grass
and leaves the springs 
and beech trees, 
takes his crook
and gently uses 
it to move his flock;

then far from other people
he finds a hut or cave
and strews its floor
with greens
and stretches out to sleep without
a care.




Oh, cruel love ~ It's then you urge me most
to hunt the wild creature who destroys me
her voice, her spoor, her tracks;
but you don't help me catch her as she flees.

Francesco Petrarca
1304  - 1374
The Poetry of Petrarch
David Young
  translation
Canzoniere
  50
  fragment
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2004©