XXI.

THE SILKWORM.

D’ altrui pietoso.

Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
    A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
    Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
    In its true worth by death alone divined. 
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
    Raiment in my outworn mortality! 
    That, changing like the snake, I might be free
    To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined! 
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
    Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
    Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss! 
All through the day she’d clasp me!  Would I were
    The shoes that bear her burden!  When the ways
    Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!

XXII.

WAITING IN FAITH.

Se nel volto per gli occhi

If through the eyes the heart speaks clear and true,
    I have no stronger sureties than these eyes
    For my pure love.  Prithee let them suffice,
    Lord of my soul, pity to gain from you. 
More tenderly perchance than is my due,
    Your spirit sees into my heart, where rise
    The flames of holy worship, nor denies
    The grace reserved for those who humbly sue. 
Oh, blessed day when you at last are mine! 
    Let time stand still, and let noon’s chariot stay;
    Fixed be that moment on the dial of heaven! 
That I may clasp and keep, by grace divine,
    Clasp in these yearning arms and keep for aye
    My heart’s loved lord to me desertless given!

XXIII.

FLESH AND SPIRIT.

Ben posson gli occhi.

Well may these eyes of mine both near and far
    Behold the beams that from thy beauty flow;
    But, lady, feet must halt where sight may go: 
    We see, but cannot climb to clasp a star. 
The pure ethereal soul surmounts that bar
    Of flesh, and soars to where thy splendours glow,
    Free through the eyes; while prisoned here below,
    Though fired with fervent love, our bodies are. 
Clogged with mortality and wingless, we
    Cannot pursue an angel in her flight: 
    Only to gaze exhausts our utmost might. 
Yet, if but heaven like earth incline to thee,
    Let my whole body be one eye to see,
    That not one part of me may miss thy sight!

XXIV.

THE DOOM OF BEAUTY.

Spirto ben nato.

Choice soul, in whom, as in a glass, we see,
    Mirrored in thy pure form and delicate,
    What beauties heaven and nature can create,
    The paragon of all their works to be! 
Fair soul, in whom love, pity, piety,
    Have found a home, as from