At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over <br />The quality of anguish that is mine <br />Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine <br />Saying, 'Is any else thus, anywhere?' <br />Love smileth me, whose strength is ill to bear; <br />So that of all my life is left no sigh <br />Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine, <br />Leaves not the body but abideth there. <br />And then if I, whom other aid forsook, <br />Would aid myself, and innocent of art <br />Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, <br />No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look <br />Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, <br />And all my pulses beat at once and stop.<br /><br />Dante Alighieri<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-i-muse-over/
