 | Elegiac sonnets, and other poems |  |
14
SONNET XIV. FROM PETRARCH.
Loose to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs;
And tho' averted now, her charming eyes
Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd.
Was I deceived?—Ah! surely, nymph divine!
That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love;
What wonder then those beauteous tints should move,
Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!
Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,
Were of a goddess—not a mortal maid;
Yet tho' thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,
My heart, my tender heart could not escape;
Nor cure for me in time or change be found:
The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!
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