Torquato Tasso: A Play

Significant show-through from the reverse page; some foxing/spotting present.

Forming for us with scent—do you not recognize them all
As fair fruits of a true love?

I, too, rejoice in the beautiful leaves.
With varied spirit he glorifies
A single image in all his rhymes.
Sometimes he lifts it in bright glory
Up to the starry sky, bows down worshipping
Like angels over clouds before the image;
Then he follows it through quiet meadows
And weaves every flower into a wreath.
If the beloved departs, he sanctifies
The path that her beautiful foot softly trod.
Hidden in the bush, like the nightingale,
From a love-sick bosom he fills
Grove and air with the resonance of his laments;
His charming suffering, the blessed melancholy, lures
Every ear and every heart must follow—

And when he names his subject,
He gives it the name Leonore.