SONNET XI

Beautiful nymphs who through the river pass,
living in contentment on your own
in your mansions built of shimmering stone
and upheld by columns made of glass:

now, one embroiders lovely trifles as
another weaves a cloth of delicate tone;
and now, a few of you go off alone,
each telling of the life and loves she has;

for a while, put your work aside
and lift your golden heads to look at me,
and I won't keep you long, I confide;

you'll be too sad to listen, or I'll be
changed to water crying at your side,
and then there will be time for sympathy.