WHEREIN THE SOFT WIND OF SPRING (L'AURA) BRINGS TO MIND HIS FIRST SIGHT OF HIS LADY

The quiet wind that from her dark green bower
On my flushed forehead murmurs cool delight,
Recalls Love's first wound and the arrow's flight,
Mortal despair in that immortal hour
When Love revealed that face, that perfect flower —
Marred since by scorn or envy — to my sight,
That hair more fine than gold, more heavenly bright...
Now pearls and jewels bind that brilliant shower —
That shower of gold she once flung out so sweetly
Or caught again in glittering loops so neatly
The senses tremble at the very thought:
These Time has since in braids more sober bounded,
And with so strong a snare my heart confounded
Death only can dissolve that golden knot.