“_Scrivo sol per sfogar l’interna doglia_”
VITTORIA COLONNA
My heart’s a wound of piteousness to-day
Because our crimson room last night was seen
The shadow of all sin since time has been—
That color that Macbeth washed not away.
Fear came between our kisses then. “Nay! nay!—
The world, how can it know our love has been?”
The moon—look!—tells it now to stars that lean
In eagerness; and they to winds that sway
The talking trees. Ah! when I leave you, Dear,
What horrors in the dawn upon me’ll seize
At many fingered mockery of leaves
A-point at me! The world will see—will hear—
The merciless white Day no one deceives,
And O! all those black-fingered, scornful trees!
II
_THE PASSING OF LOVE_
“Now, thou Hyacinth, whisper the letters on thee graven and add a
deeper _ai, ai_ to thy petals.”
—Moschus
I
“_Partir—c’est mourir un peu!_”
FRANCESCO PAOLO TOSTI
Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!
Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!
High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,
And countless little valleys now light fills.
Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;
Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cart
Nor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,
Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.
O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soul
Pour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the roll
Of longing, futile thought, repining—pain—
That like thy hills I, too, may know again—
Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;
Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!