The Silkworm.

D' altrui pietoso.


Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
        A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
        Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
        In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
        Raiment in my outworn mortality!
        That, changing like the snake, I might be free
        To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
        Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
        Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
        The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
        Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!