23.07.2007, 07:53
AFTER THE ITALIAN.
I KNOW not if I love her overmuch;
Put this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls -'tis I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her headl, with such
A look, 1 soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think'tis I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why,. for that is a strange art
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Her lovers, but I know for that red rose
She covers in her hair, I'd give my heart.
I KNOW not if I love her overmuch;
Put this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls -'tis I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her headl, with such
A look, 1 soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think'tis I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why,. for that is a strange art
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Her lovers, but I know for that red rose
She covers in her hair, I'd give my heart.