La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

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 courtezan

    Or moon-lit 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!