Not golden tresses, not a cheek vermeil, 5
Bewitched me thus; but, in a new-world guise,
A beauty that the heart beatifies;
A mien where high-souled modesty I hail;
Eyes softly splendent with a darkness dear;
A speech that more than one tongue vassal hath; 10
A voice that in the middle hemisphere
Might make the tired moon wander from her path;
While from her eyes such potent flashes shoot,
That to stop hard my ears would little boot.
V.
Truly,1 my lady sweet, your blessed eyes--
It cannot be but that they are my sun;
As strong they smite me as he smites upon
The man whose way o'er Libyan desert lies,
The while a vapour hot doth me surprise, 5
From that side springing where my pain doth won;
Perchance accustomed lovers--I am none,
And know not--in their speech call such things sighs;
A part shut in, itself, sore vexed, conceals,
And shakes my bosom; part, undisciplined, 10
Breaks forth, and all about in ice congeals;
But that which to mine eyes the way doth find,
Makes all my nights in silent showers abound,
Until my Dawn2 returns, with roses crowned.
1 Correcting MacDonald's "Certes" (Ital.
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