Chapter XVII

How delicate a passion in the heart
Is this, conceived beneath the roughest form!
Yet, while the sentiment of love is warm,
We feel the force of sorrow, should we part.
Thus would it seem to me, whene’er thou art
Occasionally ruffled by the storm
Of my desire, swiftly to inform
Thy spirit of the love which I impart.
Turn not thy head, fair one, away from me;
Nor at my words condemn the soul’s desire,
That drives from man all thought of other things.
Torn by my passion, I would willingly
Cast all earth’s treasures to th’ eternal fire,
If I might once fly heavenward on thy wings!