English

WHEREIN LOVE'S AGONY DEVOURS APACE, YET HE CANNOT REPROACH HER

The vulture flames that on my heart's heart feed
Are pitiless; with stony eyes and narrow
They search, and so consume me to the marrow,
So waste my veins, it is a ghost they bleed.
Death, with his barbarous arm poised for the deed,
As heaven thunders or the lions harrow,
Pursues me like a hawk that hunts the sparrow,
While I yield, knowing none will hear or heed.
And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they might
A double rampart for deliverance rear

WHEREIN HE CHIDETH HIS WEAKNESS THAT RETURNED HER GLOVE

Fortune and Love their highest favour showered —
Her glove of gold and silk within my hand!
O bliss too great for hot blood to withstand!
O sheath in which her perfect fingers flowered!
That starry day, that day divinely dowered
In its first gift — how have the hopes it fanned
Turned now to sorrow, rage and barren sand,
Made memory misanthrope and hope a coward!
That on the princeliest prize put in man's keeping
I laid not fiercer grip, not sturdier stand

WHEREIN HE RETURNETH THE GLOVE, ACCUSING HER BEAUTY

Not that adorable hand alone I blame
Whose gain deprives me both of hand and glove,
But its bright twin and the soft arms of love
So prompt to put my timid heart to shame.
Love spreads a thousand traps and toils of flame,
Not one in vain, such charms such power move,
And so completely her pure nature prove,
No style nor mind can touch it, no word name.
That star-stained forehead, that most tranquil-eyed,
That mild angelic mouth where rose-mist glows

WHEREIN HE DILATES UPON THE STOLEN GLOVE

O lovely hand, that dost my heart enclose
And my whole life in a small space confine!
O hand, where Heaven and Nature both combine
Their art and ardours in supreme repose!
Sweet fingers, purest pearls of orient rose
To my wounds only cruel and malign!
Does Love permit this mercy that you shine
Unsheathed before me — Love that feels and knows?
O glove, most dear, most white, most delicate,
The perfect sheath for rose-stained ivory,
Where on this earth can mortal consummate

WHEREIN HE DISCUSSES HIS HEART — HER HAIR

The gentle gust which spills the knitted flame
Of Love's deft fingers, to the sun must spill it,
The braid above her fine eyes and the fillet
Of fire round her forehead — these things tame
And trouble the heart: each nerve throbs with her name,
Each vein reveals its fear, nor can conceal it,
Approaching her whose dubious scales may will it
Quick death, slow life, brief pleasure, lingering blame.
And watching also how those eyes flash lights,

WHEREIN HE DWELLS UPON THE POWER OF HER HAIR, HER EYES

The heavenly gust rolled from that laurel green,
Where Love quelled Phaebus with a flaming stroke,
Where I was captived to so dear a yoke
That liberty may not again be seen —
That gust persuades me, as that Bedouin
The bright Medusa changed into an oak;
Nor ever can the magic knot be broke
Whose dazzle dims the sun's familiar sheen —
The magic knot of hair whose brilliant twist
Enfolds and fastens with so pure a grace
My soul that with its meekness may resist —

WHEREIN THE SOFT WIND OF SPRING (L'AURA) BRINGS TO MIND HIS FIRST SIGHT OF HIS LADY

The quiet wind that from her dark green bower
On my flushed forehead murmurs cool delight,
Recalls Love's first wound and the arrow's flight,
Mortal despair in that immortal hour
When Love revealed that face, that perfect flower —
Marred since by scorn or envy — to my sight,
That hair more fine than gold, more heavenly bright...
Now pearls and jewels bind that brilliant shower —
That shower of gold she once flung out so sweetly

WHEREIN THERE IS NO REMEDY FOR HIS PAIN SAVE IN HER PITY OR IN DEATH

Daily the silvering hair, the changed demeanour
Reveal me, yet I cherish old sweet dangers,
Cling to the laurel, which is death to strangers,
Whose green leaf heat and cold alike leave greener.
The sea shall rot, the stars burn out, and leaner
This flesh become, but in a world of changers,
She changes not; the bright celestial rangers
Grow pale: her lovely shadow flames the keener.
Ah, wound I loathe yet love, until death loose me,

WHEREIN APPROACHING THE PLACE OF LAURA ON A JOURNEY, HE IS AGAIN CONSUMED, AGAIN INFLAMED

The soft wind that sets hills in softer blue
And rouses every bud that diadems
The valley — I know well: it gave me gems
Of worship, but it crowned with red thorns too:
My sick soul to relieve, I cry adieu
To those dear haunts, the liquid l's and m's
Of Tuscan nightingales on Tuscan stems,
And seek the sun to burst my darkness through.
That sun whose virtue is so strong, so sweet
Love drives me headlong to its light again

WHEREIN HIS HIGHEST HAPPINESS CONSISTS IN SEEING AND HEARING HER

Such noble sustenance my fancy feeds
I envy not Jove's godlike meat and wine:
I gaze on her — and feel floods more divine
Surge in lethean flame that nothing heeds;
I hear her voice — that silver music bends
My trammeled soul of sighs; a double vine
Grows from one seed: I seek not to define
My doom, but doubly follow where Love leads.
That liquid voice my spirit drinks, those tones
Whose talking harmonies, so light, so dear,