’Whose gaze, evoking inspiration, Rewards you with a soft caress? Whose form, in pensive adoration, Do you now clothe in sacred dress?’ Why no one, friends, as God’s my witness, For I have known too well the witless And maddened pangs of love’s refrain. Oh, blest is he who joins his pain To fevered rhyme: for thus he doubles The sacred ecstasy of art; Like Petrarch then, he calms the heart, Subduing passion’s host of troubles, And captures worldly fame to boot!— But I, in love, was dense and mute.
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