(1304–1374)
If constancy in love, if a brave heart,
the honeys of longing and courteous
desire, if passion built a gentle fire
somewhere in its winding labyrinth;
if my every thought was etched upon
my face, understood in broken words
or shattered by fear and shame, or if a
pallor, like a violet’s, stained by love . . .
if love is to be altruistic,
if repeated sighs and weeping tears
feed equally on sorrow and rage;
if to burn at a distance or freeze
nearby, if love should dismantle me,
the blame is yours, Love, the loss with me.
§
Love delivers to me its sweetest thoughts
like a long forgotten confidant
telling me I was never so close
to what I have longed for as I am now.
I, who have believed and disbelieved,
can do no more than question now:
I live somewhere between the two,
my heart alternating yes and no.
And all the while, time quickly passes,
and my face in the mirror enters
a hopeless, contrary season.
Whatever comes, I do not age alone.
Desire remains unchanged.
What’s left of my life grows brief.
§