Sonnet XIV

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs;And tho' averted now, her charming eyesThen with warm love, and melting pity beam'd,Was I deceived?—Ah! surely, nymph divine!That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love;What wonder then those beauteous tints should move,Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,Were of a goddess——not a mortal maid;Yet tho' thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,My heart, my tender heart could not escape;Nor cure for me in time or change be found:The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!