I, who strive
    With Sculpture, know this well; her wonders live
    In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern. 
So I can give long life to both of us
    In either way, by colour or by stone,
    Making the semblance of thy face and mine. 
Centuries hence when both are buried, thus
    Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown,
    And men shall say, ’For her ‘twas wise to pine.’

XVIII.

BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST.

Al cor di zolfo.

A heart of flaming sulphur, flesh of tow,
    Bones of dry wood, a soul without a guide
    To curb the fiery will, the ruffling pride
    Of fierce desires that from the passions flow;
A sightless mind that weak and lame doth go
    Mid snares and pitfalls scattered far and wide;—­
    What wonder if the first chance brand applied
    To fuel massed like this should make it glow? 
Add beauteous art, which, brought with us from heaven,
    Will conquer nature;—­so divine a power
    Belongs to him who strives with every nerve. 
If I was made for art, from childhood given
    A prey for burning beauty to devour,
    I blame the mistress I was born to serve.

XIX.

THE AMULET OF LOVE.

Io mi son caro assai piu.

Far more than I was wont myself I prize: 
    With you within my heart I rise in rate,
    Just as a gem engraved with delicate
    Devices o’er the uncut stone doth rise;
Or as a painted sheet exceeds in price
    Each leaf left pure and in its virgin state: 
    Such then am I since I was consecrate
    To be the mark for arrows from your eyes. 
Stamped with your seal I’m safe where’er I go,
    Like one who carries charms or coat of mail
    Against all dangers that his life assail
Nor fire nor water now may work me woe;
    Sight to the blind I can restore by you,
    Heal every wound, and every loss renew.

XX.

THE GARLAND AND THE GIRDLE.

Quanta si gode, lieta.

What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
    Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
    Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
    As though to be the first her brows to kiss! 
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
    That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind: 
    And that fair woven net of gold refined
    Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness! 
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
    Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
    And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace: 
Yea, and the belt to such as understand,
    Bound round her waist, saith:  here I’d ever cling.—­
    What would my arms do in that girdle’s place?