by
Oscar Wilde
My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name,
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moonlit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
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by
Francesco Petrarch
[Pg 293] SONNET LXIII. Tornami a mente, anzi v' è dentro quella. SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH. Oh! to my soul for ever she returns;Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence,Such as she was when first she struck my sense,In that bright blushing age when beauty burns:So still I see her, bashful as she turnsRetired into herself, as from offence:I cry—"'Tis she! she still has life and sense:Oh, speak to me, my love!"—Sometimes she spurnsMy call; sometimes she seems to answer straight:Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,—"Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth dayOf April, the three hundred, forty eight,And thousandth year,—when she her earthly mansion left?" Morehead. My mind recalls her; nay, her home is there,Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form,I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm,Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.As thus my vision paints her charms so rare,That none to such perfection may conform,I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.She now replies, and now doth mute appear,Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"
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by
Francesco Petrarch
[Pg 175] SONNET CLX. Pasco la mente d' un sì nobil cibo. TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS. I feed my fancy on such noble food,That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;I see her—joy invades me like a flood,And lethe of all other bliss I feel;I hear her—instantly that music rareBids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,A double pleasure in one draught I know.Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meetAll charms of eye and ear wherewith our raceArt, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace. Macgregor. Such noble aliment sustains my soul,That Jove I envy not his godlike food;I gaze on her—and feel each other goodEngulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:Her every word I in my heart enrol,That on its grief it still may constant brood;Prostrate by Love—my doom not understoodFrom that one form, I feel a twin control.My spirit drinks the music of her voice,Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)They only feel who in its tone partake:Again within her face my eyes rejoice,For in its gentle lineaments appearWhat Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.
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by
Francesco Petrarch
SONNET CCXI. Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente. MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES. O Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,[Pg 218]But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain! Woodhouselee. What dread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!
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by
Francesco Petrarch
SONNET XCIX. Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva. THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE. Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind,Sick of the present, lingering on the past,[Pg 114]Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I castOn those who life's dark shore have left behind.Love racks my bosom: Fortune's wintry windKills every comfort: my weak mind at lastIs chafed and pines, so many ills and vastExpose its peace to constant strifes unkind.Nor hope I better days shall turn again;But what is left from bad to worse may pass:For ah! already life is on the wane.Not now of adamant, but frail as glass,I see my best hopes fall from me or fade,And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid. Macgregor. Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind,Which loathes the present in its memoried past,So wound my spirit, that on all I castAn envied thought who rest in darkness find.My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkindNo comfort grants, until its sorrow vastImpotent frets, then melts to tears at last:Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd.My halcyon days I hope not to return,But paint my future by a darker tint;My spring is gone—my summer well-nigh fled:Ah! wretched me! too well do I discernEach hope is now (unlike the diamond flint)A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.
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by
Francesco Petrarch
SONNET XLVI. Mente mia che presaga de' tuoi danni. HE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETING. My mind! prophetic of my coming fate,Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent,[Pg 271]On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intentTo seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date!From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait,From her unwonted pity with sadness blent,Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient,"I taste my last of bliss in this low state!"My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet!That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart,Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet!To them—my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to partOn a far journey—as to friends discreet,All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.
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