La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

　　My limbs are wasted with a flame，

　　My feet are sore with travelling，

　　For， calling on my Lady's name，

　　My lips have now forgot to sing.

　　O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

　　Strain for my Love thy melody，

　　O Lark sing louder for love's sake，

　　My gentle Lady passeth by.

　　She is too fair for any man

　　To see or hold his heart's delight，

　　Fairer than Queen or courtesan

　　Or moonlit water in the night.

　　Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves，

　　（Green leaves upon her golden hair！）

　　Green grasses through the yellow sheaves

　　Of autumn corn are not more fair.

　　Her little lips， more made to kiss

　　Than to cry bitterly for pain，

　　Are tremulous as brook-water is，

　　Or roses after evening rain.

　　Her neck is like white melilote

　　Flushing for pleasure of the sun，

　　The throbbing of the linnet's throat

　　Is not so sweet to look upon.

　　As a pomegranate， cut in twain，

　　White-seeded， is her crimson mouth，

　　Her cheeks are as the fading stain

　　Where the peach reddens to the south.

　　O twining hands！ O delicate

　　White body made for love and pain！

　　O House of love！ O desolate

　　Pale flower beaten by the rain！