Читать книгу A history of Italian literature онлайн

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The eyes whose praise I penned with glowing thought, And countenance and limbs and all fair worth That sundered me from men of mortal birth, From them dissevered, in myself distraught; The clustering locks with golden glory fraught; The sudden-shining smile, as angels’ mirth, Wonted to make a paradise on earth; Are now a little dust, that feels not aught. Still have I life, who rail and rage at it, Lorn of Love’s light that solely life endears; Mastless before the hurricane I flit. Be this my last of lays to mortal ears; Dried is the ancient fountain of my wit, And all my music melted into tears.

Exalted by my thought to regions where I found whom earthly quest hath never shown, Where Love hath rule ’twixt fourth and second zone; More beautiful I found her, less austere. Clasping my hand, she said, 'Behold the sphere Where we shall dwell, if Wish hath truly known. I am, who wrung from thee such bitter moan; Whose sun went down ere evening did appear. My bliss, too high for man to understand, Yet needs thee, and the veil that so did please. Now unto dust for briefest season given.’ Why ceased she speaking? why withdrew her hand? For, rapt to ecstasy by words like these, Little I wanted to have stayed in Heaven.