Excerpt from On the Death of Madonna Laura
To My Father's Memory
To those whose hearts upon some coffin lie
To knock for entrance - whose best visions took
Fire from a grave - I dedicate the cry
And all the tidal sameness of this book.
They will not blame me if my poet repeat
A thousand times his phrases like a child:
For like a child, to all that he can meet,
He talks of love that's vigilant and wild.
To Petrarch, life was but a mirror fair
Wherein his lady's beauties tranced lay:
Her eyes, her lips, her voice, her smile, her hair
Made the strange spectrum of his lonely day.
For me, I con these bright monotonous things
That, when my angel meets me on the strand
And stuns me in the rushing of his wings,
I may say something he can understand.
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