La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

Oscar Wilde

                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.

                She is too fair for any man
                  To see or hold his heart's delight,                 10
                Fairer than Queen or courtezan
                  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.                        20

                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!                  30
                O House of love! O desolate
                  Pale flower beaten by the rain!



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