Sonnets by Tommaso Campanella;Michelangelo Buonarroti
page 68 of 178 (38%)
page 68 of 178 (38%)
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For so I love thee, lady, and my strain
Of tears through age exceeds in tenderness. Yet peradventure though my day is done,-- Though nearly past the setting mid thick cloud And frozen exhalations sinks my sun,-- If love to only mid-day be allowed, And I an old man in my evening burn, You, lady, still my night to noon may turn. XLIX. _LOVE'S EXCUSE._ _Dal dolcie pianto._ From happy tears to woeful smiles, from peace Eternal to a brief and hollow truce, How have I fallen!--when 'tis truth we lose, Sense triumphs o'er all adverse impulses. I know not if my heart bred this disease, That still more pleasing grows with growing use; Or else thy face, thine eyes, which stole the hues And fires of Paradise--less fair than these. Thy beauty is no mortal thing; 'twas sent From heaven on high to make our earth divine: Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I'm content; For in thy sight what could I do but pine? |
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