Constance and Martuccio
(After Boccaccio.)
O Love, that steepest all our years
In sorrow, making present bliss
Bitter with recollected tears,
Surely even death thy guerdon is!
But ah, could parting lovers die.
They would not mourn, they would not sigh.
Not death they fear, but dread the parting kiss.
O Love, that bath est all our dreams
In glory, since apart, afar.
The phantom of the loved one seems
More real than men and women are;
O Love, that when our blood runs chill
Floods all the heart with memory still;
Sweet-bitter Love, be still our guiding-star!
I praise thee, while I mourn the woe
Of Constance, beautiful and good.
Of Constance and Martuccio,
Twin lovers since their babyhood.
Alas for either breaking heart
The day is come when lovers part;
For so decrees a father cold and shrewd.
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