WIND FLOWERS
LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE
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.
O almond-blossoms bend adown
Until ye reach her drooping head;
O twining branches weave a crown
Of apple-blossoms white and red.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moon-lit 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.
113
