Love, whose other name on earth is grief,
Made thine breast a flowing source;
Thy voice was sad, thy (charming) soul,
For from thee sympathy divine a sister keeps.
Inebriation or despair, impassionate slash languor,
Thou spouted cries of gold amid the gale,
Which verses burned upon thine lover's lips,
Took rhythm from thy beating heart.
The Just today, becoming to our voice,
Calls, with palm in hand, upon thy bust,
In order to proclaim thy glory to a Flem' old sun.
But better tender bronze to tender charms:
Perhaps it will suffice – some night – simply
For belovèd negligence to come, and throw
This tuft of flowers trembling with larmes.
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