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Recovery

Rating: 3.5
That trust is empty, woman, you place in your beauty's power,
long since grown overproud by my admiring.
Such honors once were paid you, Cynthia, by our love:
I feel ashamed my verse exalted you.
I culled so many beauties and blent them for your praise
so love could believe you were what you were not.
So often I compared your hue to rosy dawn,
when your face gleamed with whiteness you applied.
But what my family's friends could never free me from,
nor Thessaly's witches purge with a whole vast sea,
I have myself, all uncompelled by fire or blade,
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POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Translated by JON CORELiS
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5/13/2021 11:49:29 AM # 1.0.0.578