From each fair eyelid’s tranquil firmament
So brightly shine my stars untreacherous,
That none, whose love thoughts are magnanimous,
Would from aught else choose warmth or guidance lent. 
Oh, ’tis miraculous, when on the grass
She sits, a very flower, or when she lays
Upon its greenness down her bosom white. 

          
                                                                (Sonnet 127.)

Oh blithe and happy flowers, oh favoured sod,
That by my lady in passive mood are pressed,
Lawn, which her sweet words hear’st and treasurest,
Faint traces, where her shapely foot hath trod,
Smooth boughs, green leaves, which now raw juices load,
Pale darling violets, and woods which rest
In shadow, till that sun’s beam you attest,
From which hath all your pride and grandeur flowed;
Oh land delightsome, oh thou river pure
Which bathest her fair face and brilliant eyes
And winn’st a virtue from their living light,
I envy you each clear and comely guise
In which she moves. (Sonnet 129.)

These recall Nais in Theocritus: 

When she crept or trembling footsteps laid,
Green bright and soft she made
Wood, water, earth, and stone; yea, with conceit
The grasses freshened ’neath her palms and feet. 
And her fair eyes the fields around her dressed
With flowers, and the winds and storms she stilled
With utterance unskilled
As from a tongue that seeketh yet the breast,

          
                                                            (Sonnet 25.)

As oft as yon white foot on fresh green sod
Comelily sets the gentle step, a dower
Of grace, that opens and revives each flower,
Seems by the delicate palm to be bestowed. 

          
                                                            (Sonnet 132.)

I seem to hear her, hearing airs and sprays,
And leaves, and plaintive bird notes, and the brook
That steals and murmurs through the sedges green. 
Such pleasure in lone silence and the maze
Of eerie shadowy woods I never took,
Though too much tow’r’d my sun they intervene. 

          
                                                          (Sonnet 143.)

and like Goethe’s: 

I think of thee when the bright sunlight shimmers
Across the sea;
When the clear fountain in the moonbeam glimmers
I think of thee....

I hear thee, when the tossing waves’ low rumbling
Creeps up the hill;
I go to the lone wood and listen trembling
When all is still....

So Petrarch sings in Ode 15: