Original (inglés)

True love, that ever shows itself as clear In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, Silenced that lyre harmonious, and still'd The sacred chords, that are by heav'n's right hand Unwound and tighten'd, flow to righteous prayers Should they not hearken, who, to give me will For praying, in accordance thus were mute? He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief, Who, for the love of thing that lasteth not, Despoils himself forever of that love. As oft along the still and pure serene, At nightfall,