So perfect is her beauty's high estate
That mortal spirit swoons and falls prostrate
Before her glory. And she is so noble:
If I uplift to her my inward eye,
My soul is startled as if death were nigh.
Cavalcanti says:
Round you are flowers, is the tender green,
The sun is not as bright as your dear face,
All nature in her glorious summer-sheen
Has not so fair and beautiful a place,