Petrarch, "S'io credesse per morte essere scarco"

A work ("If I believed through death myself released") by this Italian poet.  You can read the original here. 

If I believed through death myself released, 
Of loving thoughts which bind me to this earth, 
Already placed would be my hands inert,
Each dull limb burdenless beneath the peat;   

But since I fear a passageway would bend
'Twixt crying eyes, from war to bloody war,  
So I remain, alas, behind a door,  
Amidst a serried path of doubtful end.   

Enough time's laps'd for final bowstrings drawn  
In arrows merciless, tint'd in their aim
With others' blood, nay bathed, my whole to breach;  

Yet deafest Love I still cannot beseech,
Who left me color'd in his painted frame,  
Forgetful now to call me to his pawn.  

Petrarch, "Io son sí stanco sotto 'l fascio antico"

A work ("So weary from that burden old") by this Italian man of letters.  You can read the original here.

So weary from that burden old,
Of sin and custom's ruthless sway,   
I fear to trip upon my way,
And fall afoul of my worst foe. 

Yet one great Friend delivered me,
With marvelous and peerless grace;
Then so flew past my eyes' embrace,
That watching Him was vain it seemed. 

Anew His voice in distant hum: 
"O you who work, the path is here;
If none bars passage, to me come."

What destiny, what grace, what love?
Shall let me rest, with wings of dove,
And let me rise from this poor sphere?