Xlviii. _love's evening._

Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Se 'l troppo indugio.

What though long waiting wins more happiness
Than petulant desire is wont to gain,
My luck in latest age hath brought me pain,
Thinking how brief must be an old man's bliss.
Heaven, if it heed our lives, can hardly bless
This fire of love when frosts are wont to reign:
For so I love thee, lady, and my strain
Of tears through age exceeds in tenderness.
Yet peradventure though my day is done,--
Though nearly past the setting mid thick cloud
And frozen exhalations sinks my sun,--
If love to only mid-day be allowed,
And I an old man in my evening burn,
You, lady, still my night to noon may turn.

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