XXI.

_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!