WHEREIN THE REFLECTION THAT POSTERITY WILL ENVY HIS LOVE CONSOLES HIM SOMEWHAT

Sweet anger, sweet disdain and peace as sweet,
Sweet ill, sweet anguish, burden sweet I bear,
Sweet accents sweet to listen to, sweet snare
That sets the soul on fire or curbs its heat.
Be still, my soul! Accept your bitter meat;
And all the acid sweets that fill your fare
Mix with that sweetest bliss, that dear despair,
Softly saluting her, " Thou Paraclete! "
Haply hereafter envious youth shall sigh:
" For sake of that superlative loveliness

WHEREIN TO INHABIT EARTH WITH HER IS FELICITY ENOUGH SINCE HE CAN ENRICH HIS SENSES FOLLOWING HER STEPS, HER STAR

Soul, so endowed, so variously endowed
To think, to write, to speak, read, see and hear!
Eyes drunk with her! And thou, devoted ear
Feeding the heart with drops of golden cloud!
Your good star rules: if that path, steep and proud,
And still so difficult, were void of her,
However gained, her glance had not flashed there,
Nor had you found her footprint where grass glowed.
Now with the light so luminous, sign so sure,

WHEREIN HE PREDICTS AFTER-LIFE TO HIS VERSES AND THAT PITY FROM POSTERITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES

Alas, I am all flame, yet she believes not!
All the world credits it, save only she
Who is all loveliness and the world to me;
She clearly sees I suffer, yet she grieves not:
O loveliest infidel, that still perceives not,
Canst fail my whole heart in mine eyes to see?
Were not my star of baleful augury,
I should find mercy, I whom Love reprieves not.
And still this flame which merits scarce a nod,
And these your praises poured through every song,

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,
And how those shoulders gleam with garland hair,

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