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Perhaps out there, somewhere, someone is sighing for your absence and with this thought, my soul begins to breathe.

Petrarch

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Petrarch
Age: 69 †
Born: 1304
Born: July 20
Died: 1374
Died: July 19
Autobiographer
Lyricist
Mountaineer
Philologist
Philosopher
Poet
Translator
Writer
Francesco Petrarca
Peetrarque
Petrarque
Francesco Peetrarque
Francesco Petrarch
Absence
Breathe
Somewhere
Perhaps
Someone
Thought
Soul
Sighing
Begins

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Who over-refines his argument brings himself to grief
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Ruthless striving, overcomes everything.
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You keep to your own ways and leave mine to me.
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How fortune brings to earth the over-sure!
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The greater I am, the greater shall be my efforts.
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Where are the numerous constructions erected by Agrippa, of which only the Pantheon remains? Where are the splendorous palaces of the emperors?
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Who naught suspects is easily deceived.
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Where you are is of no moment, but only what you are doing there. It is not the place that ennobles you, but you the place, and this only by doing that which is great and noble.
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There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.
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Books have led some to learning and others to madness.
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Great errors seldom originate but with men of great minds.
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Sameness is the mother of disgust, variety the cure.
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From thought to thought, from mountain peak to mountain. Love leads me on for I can never still My trouble on the world's well beaten ways.
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Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together.
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Man has no greater enemy than himself. I have acted contrary to my sentiments and inclination throughout our whole lives we do what we never intended, and what we proposed to do, we leave undone.
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Life in itself is short enough, but the physicians with their art, know to their amusement, how to make it still shorter.
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How difficult it is to save the bark of reputation from the rocks of ignorance.
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For death betimes is comfort, not dismay, and who can rightly die needs no delay.
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Gold, silver, jewels, purple garments, houses built of marble, groomed estates, pious paintings, caparisoned steeds, and other things of this kind offer a mutable and superficial pleasure books give delight to the very marrow of one's bones. They speak to us, consult with us, and join with us in a living and intense intimacy.
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Those spacious regions where our fancies roam, Pain'd by the past, expecting ills to come, In some dread moment, by the fates assign'd, Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind And Time's revolving wheels shall lose at last The speed that spins the future and the past: And, sovereign of an undisputed throne, Awful eternity shall reign alone.
Petrarch