SONNET

My nymph is lovely, if with golden hair,
she brings disorder to the placid wind;
lovely, if with her eyes she can convey
haughty disdain, which I forever mourn.

Lovely, if with the one light I adore
she calms the tempest of the wind and sea;
lovely, if the harshness of my grief
into celestial music she transforms.

Lovely if tame, lovely if she is rude;
lovely if cruel, and coy, and lovely too
if she turns dark the light from heaven's sky,

whose placid and so human loveliness
one cannot know without seeing her first,
nor, once seen, can by earth be satisfied.