English

Love taking leave, my heart then leaveth me,
And is enamour'd even while it would shun;
For I have looked so long upon the sun
That the sun's glory is now in all I see.
To its first will unwilling may not be
This heart (though by its will its death be won),
Having remembrance of the joy forerun:
Yea, all life else seems dying constantly.
Ay and alas! in love is no relief,
For any man who loveth in full heart,
That is not rather grief than gratefulness.
Whoso desires it, the beginning is grief;

If , as thou say'st, thy love tormenteth thee,
That thou thereby wast in the fear of death,
Messer Onesto, couldst thou bear to be
Far from Love's self, and breathing other breath?
Nay, thou wouldst pass beyond the greater sea
(I do not speak of the Alps, an easy path),
For thy life's gladdening; if so to see
That light which for my life no comfort hath,
But rather makes my grief the bitterer:

Whether all grace have fail'd I scarce may scan,
Be it of mere mischance, or art's ill sway,
That this-wise, Monday, Tuesday, every day,
Afflicts me, through her means, with bale and ban.
Now are my days but as a painful span;
Nor once " Take heed of dying" did she say.
I thank thee for my life thus cast away,
Thou who hast wearied out a living man.
Yet, oh! my Lord, if I were blest no more
Than thus much, — clothed with thy humility,
To find her for a single hour alone, —
Such perfectness of joy would triumph o'er

Upon that cruel season when our Lord
Shall come to judge the world eternally;
When to no man shall anything afford
Peace in the heart, how pure soe'er it be;
When heaven shall break asunder at His word,
With a great trembling of the earth and sea;
When even the just shall fear the dreadful sword, —
The wicked crying, " Where shall I cover me?" —
When no one angel in His presence stands
That shall not be affrighted of that wrath,
Except the Virgin Lady, she our guide; —
How shall I then escape, whom sin commands?

By the long sojourning
That I have made with grief,
I am quite changed, you see; —
If I weep, 'tis for glee;
I smile at a sad thing;
Despair is my relief.

Good hap makes me afraid;
Ruin seems rest and shade;
In May the year is old;
With friends I am ill at ease;
Among foes I find peace;

Such wisdom as a little child displays
Were not amiss in certain lords of fame:
For where he fell, thenceforth he shuns the place,
And having suffered blows, he feareth them.
Who knows not this may forfeit all he sways
At length, and find his friends go as they came.
O therefore on the past time turn thy face,
And, if thy will do err, forget the same.
Because repentance brings not back the past:
Better thy will should bend than thy life break:
Who owns not this, by him shall it appear.

Never was joy or good that did not soothe
And beget glorying,
Neither a glorying without perfect love.
Wherefore, if one would compass of a truth
The flight of his soul's wing,
To bear a loving heart must him behove.
Since from the flower man still expects the fruit,
And, out of love, that he desireth;
Seeing that by good faith
Alone hath love its comfort and its joy;
For, suffering falsehood, love were at the root
Dead of all worth, which living must aspire;
Nor could it breed desire

If any his own foolishness might see
As he can see his fellow's foolishness,
His evil speakings could not but prove less,
For his own fault would vex him inwardly.
But, by old custom, each man deems that he
Has to himself all this world's worthiness;
And thou, perchance, in blind contentedness,
Scorn'st him , yet know'st not what I think of thee .
Wherefore I wish it were so ordered

I LABOURED these six years
For thee, thou bitter sweet;
Yea, more than it is meet
That speech should now rehearse
Or song should rhyme to thee;
But love gains never aught
From thee, by depth or length;
Unto thine eyes such strength
And calmness thou hast taught,
That I say wearily: —
" The child is most like me,
Who thinks in the clear stream
To catch the round flat moon
And draw it all a-dripping unto him, —
Who fancies he can take into his hand
The flame o' the lamp, but soon

M ARVELLOUSLY elate,
Love makes my spirit warm
With noble sympathies:
As one whose mind is set
Upon some glorious form,
To paint it as it is; —
I verily who bear
Thy face at heart, most fair,
Am like to him in this.

Not outwardly declared,
Within me dwells enclosed
Thine image as thou art.
Ah! strangely hath it fared!
I know not if thou know'st
The love within my heart.
Exceedingly afraid,
My hope I have not said,
But gazed on thee apart.