I AM young and fain to sing <br />In this happy tide of spring <br />Of love and many a gentle thing, <br /> I wander through green meadows dight <br />With blossoms gold and red and white; <br />Rose by the thorn and lily fair, <br />Both one and all I do compare <br />With him who, worshipping my charms, <br />For aye would fold me in his arms <br />As one unto his service sworn. <br /> Then, when I find a flower that seems <br />Like to the object of my dreams, <br />I gather it and kiss it there, <br />I flatter it in accents fair, <br />My heart outpour, my soul stoop down, <br />Then weave it in a fragrant crown <br />Among my flaxen locks to wear. <br /> The rapture nature's floweret gay <br />Awakes in me doth last alway, <br />As if I tarried face to face <br />With him whose true love is my grace; <br />Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires <br />I cannot frame to my desires, <br />My sighs their pilgrimage do trace. <br /> My sights are neither harsh nor sad <br />As other women's are, but glad <br />And tender; in so fond a wise <br />They seek my love that he replies <br />By coming hither, and so gives <br />Delight to her who in him lives <br />Yet almost wept: "Come, for hope dies."<br /><br />Giovanni Boccaccio<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/balleta/
