Michelangelo (1475–1564)

Translated by John Addington Symonds

WHAT joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is

Around her golden hair so deftly twined,

Each blossom pressing forward from behind,

As though to be the first her brows to kiss!

The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,

That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind:

And that fair woven net of gold refined

Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!

Yet still more blissful seems to me the band

Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring

And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace:

Yea, and the belt, to such as understand,

Bound round her waist, saith: Here I’d ever cling.—

What would my arms do in that girdle’s place?