Sonnet CLXIV.
By Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)
L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro.
HER HAIR AND EYES.
The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,
Where Love to Phoebus whilom dealt his stroke,
Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,
That freedom thence I hope not to behold,
O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab old
Medusa, when she changed him to an oak;
Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke
Whose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;
I mean of those bright locks the curld snare
Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace
My soul, whose humbleness defends alone.
Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair
My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;
And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.
MACGREGOR.