Answer:
Consider the following example, a translation of “Sonnet 227” by Petrarch, by A.S. Kline:
Breeze, blowing that blonde curling hair, stirring it, and being softly stirred in turn, scattering that sweet gold about, then gathering it, in a lovely knot of curls again,
you linger around bright eyes whose loving sting pierces me so, till I feel it and weep, and I wander searching for my treasure, like a creature that often shies and kicks:
now I seem to find her, now I realise she’s far away, now I’m comforted, now despair, now longing for her, now truly seeing her.
Happy air, remain here with your living rays: and you, clear running stream, why can’t I exchange my path for yours?
Explanation:
