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