Sonnet LXXXVI
Weeping, I still revolve the seasons flownIn vain idolatry of mortal things;Not soaring heavenward; though my soul had wingsWhich might, perchance, a glorious flight have shown.O Thou, discerner of the guilt I own,Giver of life immortal, King of Kings,Heal Thou the wounded heart which conscience stings:It looks for refuge only to thy throne.Thus, although life was warfare and unrest,Be death the haven of peace; and if my dayWas vain--yet make the parting moment blest!Through this brief remnant of my earthly way,And in death's billows, be thy hand confess'd;Full well Thou know'st, this hope is all my stay!
Words in this poem
- flown a.
- Flushed, inflated.
- glorious a.
- Exhibiting attributes, qualities, or acts that are worthy of or receive glory; noble; praiseworthy; excellent; splendid; illustrious; inspiring admiration; as, glorious deeds. [OF. glorios, glorious, F. glorieux, fr. L. gloriosus. See Glory, n.]
- discerner n.
- One who, or that which, discerns, distinguishes, perceives, or judges; as, a discerner of truth, of right and wrong.
- giver n.
- One who gives; a donor; a bestower; a grantor; one who imparts or distributes.
- conscience n.
- Knowledge of one's own thoughts or actions; consciousness. [F. conscience, fr. L. conscientia, fr. consciens, p.pr. of conscire to know, to be conscious; con- + scire to know. See Science.]
- unrest n.
- Want of rest or repose; unquietness; sleeplessness; uneasiness; disquietude.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Sonnet LXXXVI is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Sonnets, Triumphs and Other Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #17650, the various hands translation; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Petrarch, Sonnet LXXXVI, in The Sonnets, Triumphs and Other Poems (1859), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #17650, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/petrarch-sonnets/sonnet-lxxxvi-2.html, id L14990.
Form and metre
Sonnet LXXXVI is 14 lines in a single stanza. It rhymes ABBAABBACDCDCD, the pattern of the Italian sonnet. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%). 92% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 10.1 syllables. 21% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other Italian sonnets, other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABBAABBACDCDCD flownA · thingsB · wingsB · shownA · ownA · kingsB · stingsB · throneA · unrestC · dayD · blestC · wayD · confess'dC · stayD
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Weeping, I still revolve the seasons flown | 10 | /˘··˘/·/˘· |
| In vain idolatry of mortal things; | 10 | ··˘/˘˘·/˘· |
| Not soaring heavenward; though my soul had wings | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘····· |
| Which might, perchance, a glorious flight have shown. | 10 | ··˘/·/˘··· |
| O Thou, discerner of the guilt I own, | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| Giver of life immortal, King of Kings, | 10 | /˘··˘/˘··· |
| Heal Thou the wounded heart which conscience stings: | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| It looks for refuge only to thy throne. | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Thus, although life was warfare and unrest, | 10 | ·····/··˘/ |
| Be death the haven of peace; and if my day | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| Was vain--yet make the parting moment blest! | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| Through this brief remnant of my earthly way, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| And in death's billows, be thy hand confess'd; | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| Full well Thou know'st, this hope is all my stay! | 10 | ·········· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.