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
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
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or
Or moonlit water in the night.
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)Green grasses through the yellow
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's
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
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands!
O
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love!
O
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
Oscar Wilde
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