If my languishing glances
My gasping sighs,
My unfinished words
Have not been able so far
To bring you the complete proof of my passions,
O my beautiful idol
Read these words,
Believe this letter,
This letter in which my heart is distilled in the form of ink.

You will discover there
The intimate thoughts
Which, with amorous steps,
Traverse my soul.
Also, you will even see my fire burn
As if, in contemplating your beauties,
It was in its own sphere.
It is not yet part of you,
That which, with the invisible force of love,
Will obtain all, if it does not sweep me along with it.
As yet I am nothing
But the prey and the trophy of your beauty.

I turn to address you, O Hair,
My dear fine threads of gold.
How then could my soul flee, sage and sound.
When you have secured it
As with a cord
And when you have bought it like gold?
You yourself, you are, then,
Both the chain and the prize of my liberty.
With you, my precious threads.
Blonde and divine,
Eternal fate
Rolls my life
Around its fatal spindle.
You, golden hair,
Which belongs to her who is all my fire,
You too are rays and sparks.

But if you are sparks,
How can it be, that at every moment,
Contrary to the custom of fire,
You drop down
As, if in order to rise you must go down,
Then, in this beautiful face
Which is the resting place to which you aspire,
There lies either the kingdom of the flames,
Or Paradise.
My dear golden grove,
Most rich hair,
Love weaves in you
This labyrinth which
My soul does not know how to leave.
even if Death cuts down the branches
Of this precious wood
And even if you separate from my weak flesh
My Spirit,
Even thus divided, I will remain a prisoner,
Of such beautiful foliage
Turned into frozen dust
And a naked shade.

Fetters so soft,
My beautiful golden drops of rain,
When, disheveled, you fall
From these rich clouds
Where you are assembled,
When, falling, you form precious tempests,
Which like golden waves,
Bathing milky rocks
And alabaster shores
My heart will expire at that moment,
O Eternal Miracle of amorous desire,
Among such beautiful tempests
My heart is extinguished.

But already, the hour calls me,
Dear and faithful messenger
Of my feeling,
Amorous letter which at present
Breaks away from my pen,
Go forth. And if Love and Heaven
Graciously grant you the favour
Of not being set ablaze by her beautiful eyes,
Your ray will penetrate
Her beautiful bosom.
Who knows whether,
From a place so happy,
By snowy paths you will arrive at
A fiery heart.