Just as a poor old man, with hair as white as snow,
leaving the happy home where he has spent his life,
embracing his dear children and beloved wife
(the family distraught to see the father go),

will drag his ancient limbs — a pilgrim’s heavy load —
through days he knows full well will be the last he’ll see,
when strength of will alone renews his energy,
he broken by the years and weary of the road,

and come to Rome, to seek the object of his faith —
Christ’s image on a handkerchief — and gaze upon this wraith,
pale prelude to a fuller vision in a higher place;

so I, alas, as chance permits, will sometimes try
by scanning other women, lady, to descry
some likeness in them of your true and longed-for face.