LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE
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Y 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 brakeStrain for my Love thy melody,O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,My gentle Lady passeth by. She is too fair for any manTo see or hold his heart’s delight,Fairer than Queen or courtesanOr moonlit water in the night. Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)Green grasses through the yellow sheavesOf autumn corn are not more fair. Her little lips, more made to kissThan to cry bitterly for pain,Are tremulous as brook-water is,Or roses after evening rain. Her neck is like white meliloteFlushing for pleasure of the sun,The throbbing of the linnet’s throatIs not so sweet to look upon. As a pomegranate, cut in twain,White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,Her cheeks are as the fading stainWhere the peach reddens to the south. O twining hands! O delicateWhite body made for love and pain!O House of love! O desolatePale flower beaten by the rain!
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