From what Idea, from what part of the skies
came that first form, out of which Nature made
that lovely, shining face, down here displayed,
to show what she can fashion for our eyes?
What nymph of fountains, goddess of the trees,
loosed such fine, gold hair to the wind?
When did a heart so many virtues seize,
that, through their total, I my death will find?
He looks for divine beauty uselessly
who never saw the eyes that she reveals,
how tenderly she lets them move and see;
nor can he know how love kills, or how it heals,
who does not hear how she sighs, so sweetly -
so sweet her speech, so sweet her laughter's peals.
Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374)
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