Written by
Percy Bysshe Shelley |
The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane.
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.
As the moon's soft splendour
O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXXVII. Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano. LOVE UNMANS HIS RESOLUTION. Oft as her angel face compassion wore,With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,With bland and courteous speech, I boldly stroveTo soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;For all my fortune, all my fate in love,My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,To her are trusted by one sovereign power.Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,By passion render'd spiritless and weak.Ah! now I find that fondness to excessFetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:Faint is the flame that language can express! Nott. Oft have I meant my passion to declare,When fancy read compliance in her eyes;And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:But let that face one look of anger wear,The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,So much my voice by passion is confined;So faint, so timid are my accents grown![Pg 161]Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me. Anon. 1777.
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