Rampolli - A Year's Diary of an Old Soul

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V.

Certes, my lady sweet, your blessed eyes-- It cannot be but that they are my sun; As strong they smite me as he smites upon The man whose way o'er Libyan desert lies, The while a vapour hot doth me surprise From that side springing where my pain doth won: Perchance accustomed lovers--I am none And know not--in their speech call such things sighs: A part shut in, sore vexed, itself conceals, And shakes my bosom; part, undisciplined, Breaks forth, and all around to ice congeals; But that which to mine eyes the way doth find, Makes all my nights in silent showers abound, Until my dawn[1] returns, with roses crowned.

[Footnote 1: Alba--where I suspect a hint at the lady's name.]

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