SONNET [14] XIV. From Petrarch.

SONNET [14] XIV. From Petrarch.

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd, Forming bright waves, with amorous Zephyr's sight; And tho' averted now, her charming eyes Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd. Was I deceiv'd? — Ah! surely, nymph divine! That fine suffusion on thy check, was love; What wonder then those beauteous tints should move, Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine! Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape, Were of a goddess — not a mortal maid; Yet tho' thy charms, thy heav'nly charms should fade, My heart, my tender heart could not escape; Nor cure for me in time or change be found: The shaft extracted, does not cure the wound!