Sweet Ladies, who to Love your hearts incline,
And hand in hand walk down compassion’s way,
Pause here an hour and weep with me and say
If ever there was sorrow like to mine!
My Lady had a heart that was the shrine
Of every splendid truth that scorns decay,
And round about her glorious limbs did play
Transcendent bloom, and from her eyes did shine
Such lights as flash about the aurioled head
Of some divine fair angel in God’s choir,
And all her soul was like an altar-fire
With faith and love, and round her life was shed
The silent chrism of innocent desire
And godlike grace! Sweet Ladies, she is dead!
Francesco Redi (1626–1697) Italy
Translated by Edmund Gosse
Source: The Book of Sorrow, edited by Andrew Macphail. London, New York: Oxford University Press, 1916
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