Beloved beauty who inspires



love in me from afar, your face obscured



except when your celestial image



stirs my heart in sleep, or in the fields



where light and nature's laughter shine more lovely—



was it maybe you who blessed



the innocent age called golden,



and do you now, blithe spirit,



fly among men? Or does that miser fate



who hides you from us save you for the future?







No hope of seeing you alive



remains for me now,



except when, naked and alone,



my soul will go down a new street



to its unknown home. Already at the dawn



of my dark, uncertain day



I imagined you a fellow traveler



on this arid ground. But there's no thing



that resembles you on earth. And if someone



had a face like yours, in act and word she'd be,



though something like you, far less beautiful.







In spite of all the suffering



fate decreed for human time,



if there were anyone on earth



who truly loved you as my thought depicts you,



this life for him would be a blessing.



And I see clearly how your love



would lead me still to strive for praise and virtue,



as I used to in my early years.



Though heaven gave no comfort for our troubles,



yet with you mortal life would be



like what in heaven leads to divinity.







In the valleys, where the song



of the weary farmer sounds,



and when I sit and mourn



the illusions of youth fading,



and on the hills where I recall



and grieve for my lost desires



and my life's lost hope, I think of you



and start to shake. If only I, in this



sad age and unhealthy atmosphere,



could keep hold of your noble look; for since the real thing's



missing I must make do with the image.







Whether you are the only one



of the eternal ideas eternal wisdom



refuses to see arrayed in sensible form



to know the pains of mortal life



in transitory spoils,



or if in the supernal spheres another earth



from among unnumbered worlds receives you



and a near star lovelier than the Sun



warms you and you breathe benigner ether,



from here, where years are both ill-starred and brief,



accept this hymn from your unnoticed lover.





