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Poem	[Pg 178] SONNET CLXIV. L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro. HER HAIR AND EYES. The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,That freedom thence I hope not to behold,O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab oldMedusa, when she changed him to an oak;Nor ever can the fairy knot be brokeWhose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snareWhich folds and fastens with so sweet a graceMy soul, whose humbleness defends alone.Her mere shade freezes with a cold despairMy heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone. Macgregor.
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