happiness. 
  He feels but little bliss who hides his bliss;
    Small joy hath he whose joy is never sung;
    And he who curbs his tongue
  Through cowardice, knows but of love the name. 
  Wherefore to succour and augment the fame
    Of that pure, virtuous, wise, and lovely may,
    Who like the star of day
  Shines mid the stars, or like the rising sun,
  Forth from my burning heart the words shall run. 
    Far, far be envy, far be jealous fear,
    With discord dark and drear,
  And all the choir that is of love the foe.—­
  The season had returned when soft winds blow,
    The season friendly to young lovers coy,
    Which bids them clothe their joy
  In divers garbs and many a masked disguise. 
  Then I to track the game ’neath April skies
    Went forth in raiment strange apparelled,
    And by kind fate was led
  Unto the spot where stayed my soul’s desire. 
  The beauteous nymph who feeds my soul with fire,
    I found in gentle, pure, and prudent mood,
    In graceful attitude,
  Loving and courteous, holy, wise, benign. 
  So sweet, so tender was her face divine,
    So gladsome, that in those celestial eyes
    Shone perfect paradise,
  Yea, all the good that we poor mortals crave. 
  Around her was a band so nobly brave
    Of beauteous dames, that as I gazed at these
    Methought heaven’s goddesses
  That day for once had deigned to visit earth. 
  But she who gives my soul sorrow and mirth,
    Seemed Pallas in her gait, and in her face
    Venus; for every grace
  And beauty of the world in her combined. 
  Merely to think, far more to tell my mind
    Of that most wondrous sight, confoundeth me,
    For mid the maidens she
  Who most resembled her was found most rare. 
  Call ye another first among the fair;
    Not first, but sole before my lady set: 
    Lily and violet
  And all the flowers below the rose must bow. 
  Down from her royal head and lustrous brow
    The golden curls fell sportively unpent,
    While through the choir she went
  With feet well lessoned to the rhythmic sound. 
  Her eyes, though scarcely raised above the ground,
    Sent me by stealth a ray divinely fair;
    But still her jealous hair
  Broke the bright beam, and veiled her from my gaze. 
  She, born and nursed in heaven for angels’ praise,
    No sooner saw this wrong, than back she drew,
    With hand of purest hue,
  Her truant curls with kind and gentle mien. 
  Then from her eyes a soul so fiery keen,
    So sweet a soul of love she cast on mine,
    That scarce can I divine
  How then I ’scaped from burning utterly. 
  These are the first fair signs of love to be,
    That bound my heart with adamant, and these
    The matchless courtesies
  Which, dreamlike, still before mine eyes must hover.