From the Italian. Seven Sonnets and a Canzone. II. Fire

NOT without fire can any workman mould

The iron to his preconceived design,

Nor can the artist without fire refine

And purify from all its dross the gold;

Nor can revive the phœnix, we are told,

Except by fire. Hence, if such death be mine,

I hope to rise again with the divine,

Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.

O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns

Within me still to renovate my days,

Though I am almost numbered with the dead!

If by its nature unto heaven returns

This element, me, kindled in its blaze,

Will it bear upward when my life is fled.