Sonnet XIV. From Petrarch

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,
Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs;
And though averted now, her charming eyes
Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd,
Was I deceived?--Ah! surely, nymph divine!
That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love;
What wonder then those beauteous tints should move,
Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!
Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,
Were of a goddess--not a mortal maid;
Yet though thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,
My heart, my tender heart could not escape;
Nor cure for me in time or change be found:
The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!