Yet for love's desire

Green youth lacks the daring; Though one dream of fire,

All his hours ensnaring,

Burns the boy past bearing,

The dream that girls inspire.

My young lord's the lover

Of every burning thought

That Love's will, that Love's skill Within his breast has wrought.

Lovely girl, look on him

Soft as music's measure; Yield him, when you've won him,

Joys and toys at pleasure;

But to win your treasure,

Softly look upon him.

My young lord's the lover

Of every tender grace

That woman, to woo man,

Can wear in form or face.

THE LEAF.

(Leopardi.)

❝TORN from your parent bough,

Poor leaf all withered now,

Where go you?' 'I cannot tell. Storm-stricken is the oak-tree

Where I grew, whence I fell.

Changeful continually,

The zephyr and hurricane Since that day bid me flee From deepest woods to the lea,

From highest hills to the plain. Where the wind carries me

I go without fear or grief: I go whither each one goes, Thither the leaf of the rose

And thither the laurel-leaf,'

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

(Dante.)

*

WHEN I made answer, I began: 'Alas!

How many sweet thoughts and how much desire

Led these two onward to the dolorous pass !'

Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire,

And said: Francesca, these thine agonies

Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire: But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,

When and what way did Love instruct you so That he in your vague longings made you wise?' Then she to me: 'There is no greater woe Than the remembrance brings of happy days In Misery; and this thy guide doth know. But if the first beginnings to retrace

Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, So will I be as one that weeps and says.

One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous :

We were alone and without any fear.

Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus,

Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow; But one sole point it was that conquered us.

For when we read of that great lover, how He kissed the smile which he had longed to win, Then he whom nought can sever from me now For ever, kissed my mouth, all quivering.

A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ: Upon that day we read no more therein.'

At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, The other wept: a pang so pitiable

That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fit, And even as a dead body falls, I fell.