To a Lady

Like target for the arrow's aim,
Like snow beneath the sunny heats,
Like wax before the glowing flame,
Like cloud before the wind that fleets,
I am — 'tis love that made me so,
And, lady, still thou sayst me no.
The wound's inflicted by thine eyes,
The mortal wound to hope and me,
Which naught, alas, can cicatrize,
Nor time, nor absence, far from thee.
Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind,
That make me such; ah, then be kind!
My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite;
Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense,
My wishes — ne'er did passion light
A flame more pure or more intense.
Love all these arms at once employs,
And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys.