Sacred Poems, SONNET XLVI

He knows not what love is who doesn't love you,
oh, celestial beauty, bridegroom fair;
your head is of pure gold, your flowing hair
like crowns that palm fronds cover totally;

your mouth is like a lily, from which spills
sweet liquor at dawn; ivory your neck;
your hand the wheel, and on its palm the seal,
which souls call hyacinths for secrecy.

My God, what thought I when, leaving behind
such beauty, and just mortal grace could see,
I lost what might have been my greatest joy?

But if the time I've lost disturbs me now,
I shall make haste, so that one hour of love
the years I've spent pretending will destroy.