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Sonnet 112.
O, wy drahé zbytky mého pádu.
Dear relic of the past! so sweetly fair,
O would that Pope, or of the Iliad, he
Could sing the tresses of thy golden hair,
In music, blessed maiden! worthy thee.
Had l the fleece of Argos—did l bear
A sultan's sceptre—dwell in palaces—
Rule half the world—thou, thou far more than these—
Thou, hundred times saluted prize, wert dear.
Thou, while it vibrates—thou my heart's own key!
Thou, who art beauty—who art all to me:
Thou—not disdainful—like a worldly maiden,
Say, when the wild wind with my dust is laden,
Wilt thou not take thy seat in heaven—a star
Where Berenice's tresses shine afar?