Giordano Bruno Poems

The moth beholds not death as forth he flies
Into the splendor of the living flame;
The hart athirst to crystal water hies,
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Winged by desire and thee, O dear delight!
As still the vast and succoring air I tread,
So, mounting still, on swifter pinions sped,
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Come Muse, O Muse, so often scorned by me,
The hope of sorrow and the balm of care,--
Give to me speech and song, that I may be
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O cliffs and rocks! O thorny woods! O shore!
O hills and dales! O valleys, rivers, seas!
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'Tis thou, O Spirit, dost within my soul
This weakly thought with thine own life amend;
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O heart, 'tis you my chief Parnassus are,
Where for my safety I must ever climb.
My winged thoughts are Muses, who from far
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