Since our other poetry thread has become so successful that it's getting overlong, herewith a new collection. Let's begin with a work by Francesco Petrarca, the original sonnetteer.

Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core;
Rompete il ghiaccio che pietà contende,
E se prego mortale al ciel s'intende,
Morte, o merce sia fine al mio dolore.
Ite, dolci penser, parlando fòre
Di quello ove 'l bel guardo non se stende:
Se pur sua asprezza, o mia stella n'offende,
Sarem fuor di speranza, e fuor d'errore.
Dir se pò ben per voi, non forse a pieno,
Che 'l nostro stato è inquieto e fosco,
Si come 'l suo pacifíco e sereno.
Gite securi omai, ch'Amor vèn vosco;
E ria fortuna pò ben venir meno
S'a i segni del mio sol l'aere conosco.

Go, burning sighs, into that frozen heart;
Shatter the ice that now with pity vies,
And if a mortal prayer can reach the skies,
Let death or mercy end at last this smart.
Go, loving thoughts, and speak aloud and show
What hides where her fair glance is not extended:
If her contempt or my star is offended
We shall be out of hope and out of woe.
You certainly can say, though not quite well,
That our condition is as dark as hell,
While her own is serene, peaceful and fair.
Go, you are safe, because Love comes with us;
And wicked fortune may decline and pass,
If the signs of my sun predict the air.

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And one of my favorites, from the Holy Sonnets of John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swellst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

That 8th line is one of the most beautiful lines of poetry I know of.

Let's have some more, poetry lovers!