Doth the thunder hurl this black summer storm
from my wild, jealous, spleen, ire wrath of doubt?
Why art mine native verses struck by drought;
Where art thy whispers of love sonnets swarm?
Being too far from home, thirsty of thy touch
living body is death, veil over hope
whilst covers bounteous harvest gilt crop
with Earth’s ashes tempest sorrow of wretch.
Still ghastly night flash hunts my frail tried soul–
Cold served cloaks spite spilled over rhymers page,
Burnt at the stake our sharp double crossed rhymes;
Mob threats, and the Republic exile scroll.
Now, I roam lone whilst play lute on the stage:
I touch strings as thy palms full of fierce flames.
Trsteno, the Arboretum and the palace of Dubrovnik philosopher Nikola Vitov Gučetić (also Nicolò Vito Gozze; 1549–1610). http://www.fmschmitt.com/travels/Croatia/Dubrovnik/trsteno-arboretum/index.html