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Sonnets by Tommaso Campanella;Michelangelo Buonarroti
page 68 of 178 (38%)
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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