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.     She is too fair for any man     To see or hold his heart's delight,     Fairer than Queen or courtesan     Or moonlit 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!