Two forces — now of fear, now hope — assailed
my heart on every side. Encamped in me,
equal in strength and in tenacity,
the foes fight on. Yet neither has prevailed.
Glad confidence or sad uncertainty?
Hope, doubt or dread: which mood should I believe?
My heart’s a captive. Vainly I deceive
myself with promises to set it free.
Confined in shadows by my lady’s power,
shall I not pluck, before I die, the flower
which opens in the springtime of her charms?
Is there no chance that, tangled in her arms,
exhausted, spent with loving, out of breath,
I may endure a sweeter kind of death?