Classic Poem

My love, my lord,
hearken to my weary plaints awhile
as on the wind I cast them,
that it may wing them to thine ears,
so be it scatter not,
even as my hopes, the grievous voice.

With thine eyes hear me,
thou whose ears are so removed
from my pen murmuring
the groaning woes of absence;
and since my rude voice cannot come to thee,
deafly hear me, who mutely mourn.

If the fields are pleasant to thee,
joy in their happy verdancy,
untroubled by these faint
vexatious tears;
for there, attentive, thou wilt see
ensample of my woes and weal.

If thou seest the prattling stream,
lover of the meadow flowers,
impart with amorous flattery
to all it looks on its desire,
there flow my tears that thou mayst know
its laughter at my sorrow's cost.

If thou seest the turtle-dove
plaintive on a green bough mourning
its withered hope,
let bough and dove remind thee of my grief,
for they set forth, in greenness and lament,
my hope and pain.

If thou seest the fragile flower,
the crag that proudly scorns
the spurning tread of time,
both image me, albeit differently,
that my contentment, this my obduracy.

If thou seest the wounded stag
that hastens down the mountain-side,
seeking, stricken, in icy stream
ease for its hurt,
and thirsting plunges in the crystal waters,
not in ease, in pain it mirrors me.

If from the savage hounds
the timorous hare in terror flies
and leaves no trace, that it may live,
of its light feet,
so my hope, in doubting and misgiving,
is close pursued by cruel jealousies.

If thou seest the bright sky,
even such is my soul's purity;
and if the day, niggard of light,
wraps its radiancy in gloom,
its darkness and inclemency
image my life since thou art gone.

Thus, sweet Fabio,
thou mayst with tranquil mind
have tidings of my woes,
perusing nature's face,
and as to every thing I fit my grief,
know my pain and still thy pleasure take.

But when alas! my glory, shall I have
my meed of joyance in thy tranquil light?
When will it be, the day
when thou shall put sweet end to so much pain?
When, dear enchantment, shall I see thine eyes
and tears desist from mine?

When will thy sounding voice
strike softly on mine ear,
and the soul that adores thee,
flooded with spate of joy,
to welcome thee with loving haste
shine forth dissolved in gladness?

When will thy fair light bathe
my sense in splendour?
And I, for happiness,
and soon to hold the guerdon of my tears,
count my vain sighs for nought?
— For such is joy and such the price of pain.

When shall I see the pleasant aspect
of thy gentle joyous face
and that unspeakable boon
no human pen can tell?
— For how should that which overflows the whole
of sense within the finite be contained?

Come then, beloved treasure,
for already my weary life is dying
of this sore absence;
come then, for while thou tarriest thy coming,
my hope, although its greenness cost me dear,
is watered by mine eyes.