Classic Poem

I have plucked a bough from della Vigna's thorn
And the leaves are eaten away.
The stock groans, streaming my hand with blood.
Must I delay
Till the black lean bitches come loping out of the wood
Foaming with sanguine, crashing the branches of blackthorn?

Rather stay here where bodily delight
And the body's pain
Are endlessly removed! There are narrower circles and more
Profound torments. But here the lonely escape disdain.
I have looked on that man's body who bore
On my beloved and to her delight.