thy outward state
    We clearly read, and are so rare and great
    That they adorn none other like to thee! 
Love takes me captive; beauty binds my soul;
    Pity and mercy with their gentle eyes
    Wake in my heart a hope that cannot cheat. 
What law, what destiny, what fell control,
    What cruelty, or late or soon, denies
    That death should spare perfection so complete?

XXV.

THE TRANSFIGURATION OF BEAUTY:

A DIALOGUE WITH LOVE.

Dimmi di grazia, amor.

Nay, prithee tell me, Love, when I behold
    My lady, do mine eyes her beauty see
    In truth, or dwells that loveliness in me
    Which multiplies her grace a thousandfold? 
Thou needs must know; for thou with her of old
    Comest to stir my soul’s tranquillity;
    Yet would I not seek one sigh less, or be
    By loss of that loved flame more simply cold.—­
The beauty thou discernest, all is hers;
    But grows in radiance as it soars on high
    Through mortal eyes unto the soul above: 
’Tis there transfigured; for the soul confers
    On what she holds, her own divinity: 
    And this transfigured beauty wins thy love.

XXVI.

JOY MAY KILL.

Non men gran grasia, donna.

Too much good luck no less than misery
    May kill a man condemned to mortal pain,
    If, lost to hope and chilled in every vein,
    A sudden pardon comes to set him free. 
Thus thy unwonted kindness shown to me
    Amid the gloom where only sad thoughts reign,
    With too much rapture bringing light again,
    Threatens my life more than that agony. 
Good news and bad may bear the self-same knife;
    And death may follow both upon their flight;
    For hearts that shrink or swell, alike will break. 
Let then thy beauty, to preserve my life,
    Temper the source of this supreme delight,
    Lest joy so poignant slay a soul so weak.

XXVII.

NO ESCAPE FROM LOVE.

Non posso altra figura.

I cannot by the utmost flight of thought
    Conceive another form of air or clay,
    Wherewith against thy beauty to array
    My wounded heart in armour fancy-wrought: 
For, lacking thee, so low my state is brought,
    That Love hath stolen all my strength away;
    Whence, when I fain would halve my griefs, they weigh
    With double sorrow, and I sink to nought. 
Thus all in vain my soul to scape thee flies,
    For ever faster flies her beauteous foe: 
    From the swift-footed feebly run the slow! 
Yet with his hands Love wipes my weeping eyes,
    Saying, this toil will end in happy cheer;
    What costs the heart so much, must needs be dear!