67. ‘Del mar Tirreno a la sinistra riva,’

On the left shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea,

where the waves weep, broken by the wind,

I suddenly glimpsed the noble leaves

that force me to write so many pages.

Love that was seething in my spirit

through remembering that golden hair,

pushed me so I fell, as if no longer living,

into a stream hidden in the grass.

Alone though I was among the woods and hills,

shame was with me, for the gentle heart

is enough in itself, and needs no other spur.

I’m at least glad to have changed my tale

from eyes to feet, since if these are made wet

the others are dried by a more courteous April.