November 3, 2011

La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente


     La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente
          (Lovely Lady of My Memory)
by: Oscar Wilde

      My limbs are wasted with a flame,
      My feet are sore with travelling,
      For, calling on my Lady's name,
      My lips have now forgot to sing.
      O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
      Strain for my Love thy melody,
      O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
      My gentle Lady passeth by.
      She is too fair for any man
      To see or hold his heart's delight,
      Fairer than Queen or courtesan
      Or moonlit water in the night.
      Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
      (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
      Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
      Of autumn corn are not more fair.
      Her little lips, more made to kiss
      Than to cry bitterly for pain,
      Are tremulous as brook-water is,
      Or roses after evening rain.
      Her neck is like white melilote
      Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
      The throbbing of the linnet's throat
      Is not so sweet to look upon.
      As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
      White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
      Her cheeks are as the fading stain
      Where the peach reddens to the south.
      O twining hands! O delicate
      White body made for love and pain!
      O House of love! O desolate
      Pale flower beaten by the rain!

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