Whate’er most wild and new
    Was ever found in any foreign land,
    If viewed and valued true,
    Most likens me ’neath Love’s transforming hand. 
    Whence the bright day breaks through,
    Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,
    Who voluntary dies,
    To live again regenerate and entire: 
    So ever my desire,
    Alone, itself repairs, and on the crest
    Of its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,
    There melts and is undone,
    And sinking to its first state of unrest,
    So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,
    And, Phoenix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.

    Where Indian billows sweep,
    A wondrous stone there is, before whose strength
    Stout navies, weak to keep
    Their binding iron, sink engulf’d at length: 
    So prove I, in this deep
    Of bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,
    That fair rock knew to guide
    Where now my life in wreck and ruin drives: 
    Thus too the soul deprives,
    By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,
    It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed: 
    For mine, O fate accurst! 
    A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,
    Whom still i’ the flesh a magnet living, sweet,
    Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet.

    Neath the far Ethiop skies
    A beast is found, most mild and meek of air,
    Which seems, yet in her eyes
    Danger and dool and death she still does bear: 
    Much needs he to be wise
    To look on hers whoever turns his mien: 
    Although her eyes unseen,
    All else securely may be viewed at will
    But I to mine own ill
    Run ever in rash grief, though well I know
    My sufferings past and future, still my mind
    Its eager, deaf and blind
    Desire o’ermasters and unhinges so,
    That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,
    Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.

    In the rich South there flows
    A fountain from the sun its name that wins,
    This marvel still that shows,
    Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;
    Cold, yet more cold it grows
    As the sun’s mounting car we nearer see: 
    So happens it with me
    (Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),
    When the bright light and sweet,
    My only sun retires, and lone and drear
    My eyes are left, in night’s obscurest reign,
    I burn, but if again
    The gold rays of the living sun appear,
    My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;
    Within me and without I feel the frozen change!

    Another fount of fame
    Springs in Epirus, which, as bards have told,
    Kindles the lurking flame,
    And the live quenches, while itself is cold. 
    My soul, that, uncontroll’d,
    And scathless from love’s