And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles,
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.
SONNET 186.
“Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.”
Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light,
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show;
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright,
Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow;
The rich redundance of that golden hair,
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day;