refined
    Into a heavenly form of nobler mind,
    And dowered with all thine angel purity. 
Ah me! and may heaven also keep my sighs,
    My scattered tears preserve and reunite,
    And give to him who loves that fair again! 
More happy he perchance shall move those eyes
    To mercy by the griefs my manhood blight,
    Nor lose the kindness that from me is ta’en!

XXXIV.

LOVE’S FURNACE.

Si amico al freddo sasso.

So friendly is the fire to flinty stone,
    That, struck therefrom and kindled to a blaze,
    It burns the stone, and from the ash doth raise
    What lives thenceforward binding stones in one: 
Kiln-hardened this resists both frost and sun,
    Acquiring higher worth for endless days—­
    As the purged soul from hell returns with praise,
    Amid the heavenly host to take her throne. 
E’en so the fire struck from my soul, that lay
    Close-hidden in my heart, may temper me,
    Till burned and slaked to better life I rise. 
If, made mere smoke and dust, I live to-day,
    Fire-hardened I shall live eternally;
    Such gold, not iron, my spirit strikes and tries.

XXXV.

LOVE’S PARADOXES.

Sento d’ un foco.

Far off with fire I feel a cold face lit,
    That makes me burn, the while itself doth freeze: 
    Two fragile arms enchain me, which with ease,
    Unmoved themselves, can move weights infinite. 
A soul none knows but I, most exquisite,
    That, deathless, deals me death, my spirit sees: 
    I meet with one who, free, my heart doth seize: 
    And who alone can cheer, hath tortured it. 
How can it be that from one face like thine
    My own should feel effects so contrary,
    Since ill comes not from things devoid of ill? 
That loveliness perchance doth make me pine,
    Even as the sun, whose fiery beams we see,
    Inflames the world, while he is temperate still.

XXXVI.

LOVE MISINTERPRETED.

Se l’immortal desio.

If the undying thirst that purifies
    Our mortal thoughts, could draw mine to the day,
    Perchance the lord who now holds cruel sway
    In Love’s high house, would prove more kindly-wise. 
But since the laws of heaven immortalise
    Our souls, and doom our flesh to swift decay,
    Tongue cannot tell how fair, how pure as day,
    Is the soul’s thirst that far beyond it lies. 
How then, ah woe is me! shall that chaste fire,
    Which burns the heart within me, be made known,
    If sense finds only sense in what it sees? 
All my fair hours are turned to miseries
    With my loved lord, who minds but lies alone;
    For, truth to tell, who trusts not is a liar.