To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,
Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;
And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,
Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,
Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!
Love’s Blindness.
“O LOVE, my Love, thou canst not know how sweet,
How dear thou art!”—“Naught would I know, save this