Petrarch

There is a garden utterly untilled
In which bloom flowers lovely past compare;
The nightengale as well has sojourned there
And with her voice the air is nightly filled.
There every creature does what it has willed
And none are subject to vicious despair,
Lingering pain or undeservéd care,
While all disturbance is obliquely stilled.
Though I were lying there in all its charms,
Surrounded by its beauty and its bliss,
I would, for one soft touch of her light kiss,
Or one embrace of her so tender arms
Leave such delights and wander where she would
And think that this exchange did me but good.