I thought chill weather and advancing years
had quenched the fire which now flares up again,
reviving my soul’s agonies of old.

Those dying embers never were quite cold,
I see — just partly covered. I’m afraid
that I’ll compound the error which I made
in youth, this second time. Thousands of tears
I’ll scatter, for my heart distils its pain
in weeping, as it must; yet from the store
it keeps of sparks and tinder will arise
a brighter flame than that which burned before.

What blaze of passion would not now be spent
by this incessant drenching from my eyes?
Too late I realise Love’s cruel intent:
my strength, torn between opposites, he saps
or, like a fowler, lays such subtle traps
that, though my heart had hopes of fluttering free,
her lovely face once more entangles me.