Ballate
BALLATA VIII
The eyes of this gentle maid of the forest
Have set my mind in such bewilderment
That all my wistful thoughts on her are bent.
So doth she pierce me when mine eyes regard her
That I hear sighs a-trembling in mine heart
As from her eyes aye sources of mine ardour
The quaint small spirits of Amor forth-dart
From which small sprites such greater powers start
That when they reach me my faint soul is sent
Exhausted forth to swoon in banishment.
I feel how from mine eyes the sighs forth-fare
When my mind reasoneth with me of her,
Till I see torments raining through the air.
Draggled by griefs, which I by these incur,
Mine every strength turns mine abandoner,
And I know not what place I am toward,
Save that Death hath me in his castle-yard.
And I am so outworn that now for mercy
I am not bold to cry out even in thought,
And I find Love, who speaking saith of her, “See,
She is not one whose image could be wrought.
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