Sonnet 118

I leave my sixteenth year of sighs
and head into my final one
although it seems I’ve just begun
exploring ways to agonize.

The bitter’s sweet, my losses wise,
and life a weight. I pray my run
of bad luck ends; I’d be undone
if Death did shut her lovely eyes.

Sadly, I stay, but long to go,
and long for longing that has passed,
and fail at partial resolutions.

New tears for old desires show
I am unchanged; I have held fast
despite a thousand revolutions.

(translated from the Italian of Petrarch)

—A. M. Juster