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.

O almond-blossoms bend adown

      Until ye reach her drooping head;

O twining branches weave a crown

      Of apple-blossoms white and red.

She is too fair for any man

      To see or hold his heart's delight,

Fairer than Queen or courtesan

      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!

God can bring Winter unto May,

      And change the sky to flame and blue,

Or summer corn to gold from grey:

      One thing alone He cannot do.

He cannot change my love to hate,

      Or make thy face less fair to see,

Though now He knocketh at the gate

      With life and death—for you and me.