157. ‘Quel sempre acerbo et honorato giorno’

That day, always bitter and always honoured

sent such a living image to my heart

that no skill or art could ever picture,

but often memory returns to it.

Her aspect adorned all with gentle pity,

and the sweet bitter grieving that I heard,

made me doubt if mortal lady or goddess

had made the sky grow clear all around.

Her hair pure gold, and hot snow her face,

her eyebrows ebony, her eyes twin stars,

from which Love never bent his bow in vain:

pearls and crimson roses, where grief received

the form of an ardent lovely voice:

flames her sighs, and her tears were crystal.